Blessed Benefits
by Clef Longfellow
Summary: Puck just found out he has cancer. He's broke with no means for health insurance. Kurt is living his dreams in the fashion world with awesome pay and health benefits. The Gay marriage law just passed in California, where they've both been living since high school. Puck decides to do the gayest thing he'll probably ever do in his life. Sort of AU, Slash, Puckurt. Warnings inside.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This one has been lingering in my mind ever since they passed the law for gay marriage in California. I have no idea where it's going. The plan is definitely for Puckurt though. I'm still working on my other fic, _The District_, so for anyone following that one, I haven't abandoned it - just got smacked in the face by this plot bunny and for the first time in my history of writing, am juggling two stories at once. I have a demanding job so that conflicts with my ability to update often, but I'll try to get things up at least every few weeks. But the higher the interest in the story, the more I'll honestly be invested in getting chaps up sooner. Just being honest. **

**Warnings: Knowing me, I'm sure there will be some sexy time and homo eroticness; meaning some man on man sex. Derogatory and/or graphic language... probably both. Maybe some physical violence. Possibly. This one deals directly with illness (cancer), but I'm hoping for it to be lighter on the conscience rather than sad, and full of death. Maybe a first for one of my fics, lol. Kidding... mostly. Cause it's sort of true - I do tend to dabble in death. **

**Disclaimer: Don't own Glee or its charming, loveable characters. I don't own any of the products or companies I mention. If I did, I probably wouldn't be here writing fanfiction cause I'd be busy taking money baths. I do own the OC's in the story. I don't have a beta - though I should probably start using one - I just want to get the chaps up post haste. But all grammar, spelling mistakes are mine, I do declare. **

* * *

**Blessed Benefits**

**Puck**

"I - what, now?"

"Cancer, Mr. Puckerman. Pancreatic. Luckily it's in its early stages. Stage 2, or 2A to be exact. The survival rate for treating it early on is significantly higher when caught in its beginning stages."

Nope. He didn't just say that. Cancer? Not him. He was Noah _fucking_ Puckerman. The Puckasaurus. Didn't this gray haired, book snorting, college goer, know anything? Cancer didn't happen to guys like him. There's got to be some karmic law, or some bible thumping philosophy; some crap about the strong surviving and the weak... well, getting cancer. 'Cause they're weak. Which he isn't.

"The survival rate?"

"Yes. The chance for you to fight this off and be in remission is looking well. So we'll have to start with running some more tests. Then from there we'll have to discuss starting you on chemo therapy, along with an aggressive radiation and medication regiment."

This was making no fucking sense. Like - at all.

"I - I have cancer? Like,_ actual _cancer. Where people die and shit?"

"You do."

"I could - I could _die_?"

"Like I said. Your chances of survival are looking promising at this point. We'll need to begin with..."

And it's all white noise from there. Like a static filled radio station buzzing in his ear. Tuned out, and oblivious, the rest of the doc's words were completely lost on him. Wasted rather. He just couldn't hear or make sense of shit beyond the fucking noise crowding his brain.

Puck just thought that maybe he'd pulled something in his back. It wasn't exactly a crazy thought. He did a lot of heavy lifting at the music shop. He figured after a few days, his muscles would eventually heal themselves and quit aching. That maybe he'd been having issues with feeling tired cause of the long days at the shop. How the hell could he have known that _this_ would be the outcome of wanting to score some 800 mg ibuprofen to finally kick the shit out of the lingering stomach and back pains?

He didn't notice the awkward smile perched at some place battling both sympathy and encouragement in between Doctor Fiennes' sentences. Or the tilt of the doc's glasses as they sat unevenly on his slightly crooked nose. The gleaming white-gold band sitting on his hair knuckled ring finger that signified a likely healthy, stable commitment to some other person; a woman who probably bore exactly 2.5 of his highly privileged, genius children who were already predispositioned for greatness. Not to mention his too old staff picture on the hospital badge pinned to his thin lab coat, that contained a noticable mustard stain on the edge of the collar.

He see's it all. But doesn't really see it.

The only thing that he can make sense of are the same words replaying constantly in his mind, drowning out anything remotely optimistic: _You. Cancer. Die_.

He barely registered the nurse entering the room. Didn't even catch the doc's sudden frown as he glanced down at the paperwork currently clutched in his hand that the nurse had delivered.

"Ah, Jesus," Doctor Fiennes whispers aloud to himself. Finally the doc looks up from the slight stack of forms, and addresses him again. "Um - Mr. Puckerman."

_You. Cancer. Die. You. Cancer. Die._

"Mr. Puckerman?"

"Uh huh?"

Puck looks up, a mere blink away from being re-caged by his dazed state of disbelief.

"I - I don't know how to tell you this," Doctor Fiennes voices solemnly.

"I don't think it could get any worse doc. You already told me I got cancer. Unless you're gonna tell me I got some disease that makes my dick useless and fall off, I think that pretty much takes the cake. Just... y'know, give it to me straight."

Doctor Fiennes appears reluctant, an almost sad look on his face as he removes his rectangular glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"There was a - um - mistake in your paperwork. I was under the impression that you had full insurance that would cover your projected treatment. I'm sorry, but - this changes everything."

This is like that acid trip movie he saw as a kid. Alice in Neverland, or something. He was the rabbit falling down the hole with no end in sight.

"What do you mean doc? You said you were gonna help me. Chemo and radioactivity and all that type of shit. Right? So what are you saying?"

"I'm sorry Mr. Puckerman. But we won't be able to move forward with treatment. Not under the current financial circumstances. You would likely be in need of a combination of surgery, chemo and radiation therapy. Which are well into the range of hundreds of thousands of dollars."

"So what? You drop this huge fucking bomb on me and then send me on my way? Good luck with dying dude. Thanks but we can't actually help you?!"

"There are alternative treatments Mr. Puckerman. Some people have found that holistic remedies can be beneficial. Change in diet. Exercise. There are other ways to deal with -"

"But none of them work. Not like radio rays or chemo. Right?"

Doctor Fiennes remains silent, avoiding Puck's eye.

"Right?!"

"It's true that chemo and radiation are the best forms of evidence based treatment, yes."

"Please man. What can I do? There's gotta be something. Like a program - or something like that. Something that helps people without insurance or who can't afford it."

"There are some government assistance programs. But usually those programs are specifically for unemployed persons or people living extremely below the poverty level due to some incapacity - a mental health issue, or some disability that keeps them from working. You can speak with one of the hospital social workers to further assist you. Maybe they can find something."

"But I know a guy who knows a guy, whose cousin got diagnosed with cancer in jail. They put him through all the treatments you were just talking about. Chemo and everything. He didn't have to come out of pocket a cent."

"Federal funding for inmates can cover hospital expenses. Sometimes even extreme cases such as cancer treatment."

Where was the ground again? Was it ever gonna come back?

"You mean to tell me some fuckwad in jail - some asshole who fucking stole his way through his own kid's college fund, robbed liquor stores for petty cash, and put some guy in the hospital by running him over with his shitty little Yaris - the gayest clown car on the planet - is able to get help. But _I_ can't?"

"I'm sincerely sorry. I wish there was more I could do."

He feels it then. The numbness give way to a surging anger that engulfs him like the dude from Fantastic Four. Just on the inside instead.

"Okay. Right. Fine."

Puck jumps down from the examination table, quickly snatching up his pile of clothes from the nearby chair angrily. Keeping his hands full of something was the key to getting out of here without choking the ever loving shit out of the doc.

"Yeah. I see how it is. Fucking American government and our backwards ass health care system that fucking spoils murderers and child molesters, and treats them like fucking royalty. But fucking makes hard working people who live pay to pay check, and are just trying to make a decent living die slowly while they count their pennies. Oh no - not quarters. 'Cause quarters means you make too much money, and you have to be living out a god damn cardboard box to qualify for any sort of care! And you wonder why Canadians are so fucking nice all the time. 'Cause they live longer! And they have a fucking maple leaf on their national flag! That's fucking amazing! Who wouldn't be happy about that?! Maple syrup and hockey and free health care. A combination that apparently makes for a country full of fucking happy, nice people who according to South Park, say 'eh' a lot. But you know what - that's fine! I'm just gonna be taking this with me," He hisses while grabbing a jar of long q-tips from the countertop, spilling several in his haste.

"Mr. Puckerman -"

"And this," a pamphlet on STD's and safe sex practices. Another pamphlet entitled, _**How to Deal With Pain: The Mysteries of Fibromyalgia.**_

"Mr. Puckerman, please."

Puck pauses momentarily to scope out the rest of the office. "And this too." He then rips a poster from the wall; an illustration diagram of a woman's internal organs, including her birth canal.

Doctor Fiennes is now covering his face with his hand, gently shaking his head at the outburst, but says nothing.

"It's the least you fuckers can do. Give me a god damn parting gift - Ha! A parting gift. That's not fucking ironic at all!"

"Mr. Puckerman at least -"

"Have a nice life, doc," Puck spat indignantly, wrenching the door open and closing it with a heavy slam.

"Tie the draw string to your gown," Doctor Fiennes finishes aloud to the now empty exam room. "The pediatrics department is down the hall."

Sure enough, not more than a handful of seconds later, he overhears several female cries and protests regarding indecent exposure reverberate down the hallway.

* * *

**Kurt**

"God bless you, you swanky, well dressed little bastard you."

"I don't believe in God," He blinks.

"But I believe in you. And I'm like God - so, just go with it," she trills merrily.

Lorraine Warrenson. A middle aged, divorcee, and over ten year acting CEO of _High Rise Fashion Incorporated_, pinched his cheek with entirely too much gusto. He was sure that his normally flawless skin was marred by an angry blotch of red from the gesture. But he couldn't bring himself to care as he rubbed over the spot with his fingertips, rolling his glasz eyes with a pleased grin.

He couldn't exactly begrudge her the self appointed title. The woman _was_ like God. Or a Goddess rather. Who swore a lot. And wore sinfully stylish high heels to compensate for her short stature. But was undeniably someone to be reckoned with in the fashion industry.

He idolized her. She was one of the main driving forces behind his current position as the agency's senior designer; the youngest one to date.

Kurt Hummel was only twenty four years old and was by all intents and purposes, living his dream.

The kid who always saw himself in April O'Neil's white booted feet as opposed to being any of the Ninja Turtle's like the other boys during recess time.

The one who literally was made to eat dirt by some kid in the third grade for thinking that Dragon Ball Z was ridiculous and that My Little Pony had a quaint sophistication bordering royalty that all kids, boy or girl should appreciate.

The kid who took a face full of slushies from overzealous, hateful, meathead jocks nearly the entirety of his high school career...

He was now sitting atop a fashionable pedastal made of gold chifon and lace. Looking down on the them like the poorly dressed, muted peasants that they were with their beer bellies, trailer homes full of screaming illegitimate children, and broken dreams.

Well, at least that's how he imagined it.

"I want the finalized proposal in writing on my desk by Monday. Till then, go celebrate with a side of some hot, exotic Puerto Rican ass, and a Sex and the City type martini made from a guava melon, or some absurd type of fruit that we get imported from a third world country."

"Have you been watching gay porn again?"

"Every night for two weeks straight. By Monday Hummel."

"Yeah, yeah."

The rest of the meeting's occupants had already vacated, slipping him appreciative smiles and blurts of congratulations as they trounced from the board room and left him in the afterglow of his latest accomplishment.

He was on cloud nine. He literally had to suppress himself from twirling and clapping. He almost gave into the desire until a familiar voice put the kibosh on the urge.

"Um - hey, Kurt."

"Oh. Mickey. Hi, how are you?"

The nineteen year old intern swallowed, adjusting his glasses to sit more sturdily across his sharp nose.

"Um - fine. Really Good. Just wanted to say that you were r-really good. I mean - not that you haven't been good before. Y-you're always awesome. You just - it - it was brilliant. The way you meshed the checkered patterns to bring out the subtle monochromatic backdrop? I just - wow, you know."

Kurt couldn't help but beam at the praise coupled with the shy, yet earnest delivery.

"Why thank you. I was honestly a little nervous. I wasn't sure that the changes wouldn't be a seen as little too extreme at first glance. But it seemed to go over pretty well."

"You didn't seem it. I can tell how passionate you are about the line. Obviously Miss Warrenson could too."

"Well I appreciate it. That means a lot, Mickey."

There was a moment where they both stood stock still, a nervous Mickey looking a bit lost as if wanting to say something else, but unable to make his mouth move.

"Well. O-okay then. Good night Kurt."

"Good night, Mickey."

Mickey had managed several steps before turning on his heel.

"Hey - uh, Kurt?"

"Yes?"

"You - you really should celebrate or something. You deserve it."

"That's a good suggestion. Maybe."

"Um - would you, maybe want to go out? I mean - just for a drink or something. My treat. A totally professional, celebratory outing. It's the least I can do. I - I really do learn a lot from just watching you - _work_, watching you work."

Mickey squeezed his eyes shut and huffed out a strangled sigh. Kurt's smile widened at the display.

"And it would be my pleasure - er - honor. If you'd let me," Mickey concluded after his rambling admission.

Kurt was flattered. Truly. Mickey _was_ admittedly attractive, and a genuinely nice guy. But his big head immediately took over, dragging him away from his thoughts often created by his little head regarding Mickey's attractiveness, and plunked him smack, dab, right back into his preconceived safe zone where fashion overruled the flesh. The place where his heart resigned itself to an impenetrable cage that blocked out thoughts of love, dating, and relationships.

"That sounds really nice. But I have some paperwork to get done. The earlier I start, the better."

"Of course. I understand." Mickey uttered quietly.

"But another time maybe? I'm always up for an early morning coffee."

The brunette shot Kurt a wide smile. Kurt nearly giggled at the abrupt change in expression.

"Sure, Kurt. G'night."

He waved as Mickey disappeared out the door, leaving him alone with his thoughts, in a barren atmosphere that without people, felt like a weird void-induced backdrop after all the excited energy had dissipated.

Suddenly he felt as empty as the room. Deflated, and unequivocally alone.

* * *

**A/N:** **So? You like? Let me know with some reviews so that way I will feel inspired to continue this journey. Side note: I am not a medical expert. I'm going based on very mild research and what sounds good to me. That also goes for the whole fashion thing. Not my expertise, what so ever. I made up the company name so any resemblance to an actual fashion agency is pure coincidence. As for Puck's predicament, I'm pretty sure it's not really true. Maybe possible, but I don't really know. Good news, we are all in the world of fiction so let's imagine together shall we? Lol. Thanks guys! Much love to you! **


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: This one's a bit longer. A lot longer actually. Blame Puck. He likes to drink, and I like banter so his sections are lengthier. I made time to punch this one out as a thank you to everyone who has thus far read, reviewed, and favorited, the first chap. Thank you all very kindly! Now that I know there's some solid interest, I feel confident in going forward with this one. (:**

* * *

**Blessed Benefits**

**Puck**

"Another round on me fuckers!"

The bar erupts in whooping and cheers.

"You're the man Puck!" He overhears through the din.

"Fuck yeah! I am indeed the fuckin' man. Gladys, make it a double."

The buxom bartender shook her red dyed head and began retrieving the newest order, pouring the whisky mixes and shots with a wry expression.

"Dude, seriously. Not that I don't mind free booze. But what gives?"

Puck slammed down his shot with a hiss before answering. His dark eyes narrowing in an effort to make out who the hell was speaking.

Oh, yeah. Cedric. He recognized him cause of the ear plugs that stretched his lobes to an uncomfortable looking state, and the thick eyebrows swept underneath a signature greaser, rock-a-billy type hairdo, which was accented by obnoxiously full sideburns.

"Ced. Why does there have to be a reason? I'm young, dumb, and full of cum -"

"True except the young part -"

"And a good drink reminds me and everybody else 'bout bein' alive! So drink up, and shut your face hole!"

"Whatever, dude," Cedric sighs, passing his untouched drink along to Wyatt, a recently turned twenty-one year old with spiked blonde hair and a fuck all attitude, who downs it gratefully while patting Puck on the back with infectious enthusiasm.

"Don't be a buzz kill Ced. We just got out of work and the dude wants a drink. And he wants to share the love. Don't be a love murderer. Nobody likes a murderer of precious love. There's a law. Accept it."

"Exactly - See, Wyatt gets it."

Puck tucks his arm around Wyatt and kisses the side of his spiked head with a loud smack.

Wyatt grabs his beer and clinks it against Puck's recovered bottle, both men shouting and bursting with raucous laughter.

"Hey Ced. Want another one?" The red headed bartender queries.

"Nah. But I'll take a water Gladys."

"Driving him home again?"

"Looks that way."

"Here. On the house."

Gladys smiles while handing Cedric a full bottle of water.

"Thanks, G."

"What can I say? I like rewarding good behavior. Be safe."

Cedric returns her warm smile.

"That's the plan."

"YEAH! I FUCKING RULE!"

Cedric and Gladys cringe at Puck's wild outburst, watching him attempt to chug two bottles of beer at the same time.

"Better get a water to go G," he comments off handedly while watching his friend lose himself in a swill of alcoholic bliss.

* * *

**Kurt**

"So how'd the presentation go kid?"

Kurt holds the phone to his ear as he sweeps across the kitchen, grabbing a wine glass from the cabinet and pouring a fresh glass of pinot grigio; his latest flavor of interest.

"She loved it. They all did actually."

"That's great, Kurt. I knew they would," Burt Hummel gushed. Kurt smiles as he grabs his plated Marrakesh vegetable curry and full wine glass, while balancing the phone between his shoulder and ear. He settles himself on the plum colored sofa while arranging his silverware for use on the posh coffee table. Normally he would be sitting at the dining table. Manners, and all. He was a stickler as much as he hated to feel like a stereotype. But at the moment, he felt pretty deserving of a sit in front of the TV to unwind with some mindless, trash television after his glowing work day.

"_You_ did. I wasn't so sure however. But I'm glad it worked out."

"Me too, kiddo."

"Did you already eat dinner?" Kurt ventures.

"About an hour or so ago. Why?"

"And what pray tell, did it consist of?"

"Ah c'mon bud. You're not gonna start grilling me are you?"

"Dad. I _know_ you. And grilling you is a very necessary part of my job description as your son."

"I already get it enough from Carole. Trust me. That woman is like the cholesterol police," Burt grouses.

"And I'm like the Lieutenant to her chiefliness."

"I'm pretty sure that's not a word."

"It is. Check Wikipedia. Dad, c'mon. Appease your happily accomplished son."

His dad was never really that great at denying him much. Kurt knew if he stayed the course, his persistence would eventually win Burt over.

"Alright. Alright. I had a grilled chicken salad, if you must know, nosy."

Kurt smiles to himself. Like clockwork.

"With Ranch?"

"No."

"Daaad?"

"No Ranch. Promise. A splash of Italian, and that was it."

"I can accept a splash. As the Lieutenant of the cholesterol police, I'm satisfied with that answer."

Burt chuckled. A gruff sound that always warmed Kurt's heart.

"So did you hear the official news?"

"About Croc shoes being banned from Walmart's everywhere?"

"Don't be a smart ass. It's on the news again."

Kurt's grin thins into a tight line. He knows exactly what his Dad is referring to.

"Yeah. They kept talking about it at work today."

"It's exciting isn't it? You can _legally _get married. You know - if you wanted. And you don't have to settle in some random state like Massachusetts or Rhode Island to make it happen."

"Kind of need to be dating somebody first, Dad."

"I know that. I'm just saying. When you find the guy, your love would be fully acknowledged. The way it should be. It's pretty awesome if you ask me."

Kurt turns on the 56 inch screen, and flips the channel to the local news. Sure enough, images of the San Francisco pride parade splash across the screen. Rainbow themed floats, wild get ups, and all around gay craziness erupt into his irises. His eyes drift across the couples sitting in the back of flashy, luxury and classic cars, decked out with 'Just Married' banners as they drive along within the parade line.

He can't help the wetness that overtakes his eyes. A distant pang that definitely isn't pride.

"Speaking of which, _are_ you dating anyone yet?"

"What? Um - no."

"Kuurrt - "

"What? I've been busy with work."

"You've been saying that for over six months now. I get that your busy. But you gotta have a life too, bud. Get out more, y'know?"

They both fall silent. Kurt is chewing his bottom lip. He hates having this conversation, which seems like the same one they've had on repeat for months now. He knows exactly where it's going. Which reminds him of why he despises the subject in the first place.

"Kurt. You've been split from Alan for a while now."

And whoop, there it is.

"Don't you think you ought to get back out there? Hell, I mean, you're in LA. The capital of all that's gay. You're in the same state that they just legalized gay marriage in. Don't limit yourself to sitting back and letting life pass you by - "

"Dad. I appreciate the sentiment. Really, I do. And side note, I think San Francisco actually has that title. But I'm just not interested in anybody. Not now anyway. So please, can we just drop it? Please."

He closed his eyes at the sound of his father's deep sigh, willing the tears to stay at bay.

"Okay. My lips are sealed. You know I just want you to be happy, Kurt."

"I - I know, Dad."

The silence returns, and Kurt is feeling the sob literally climbing up his esophagus for escape.

"I'm g-going to go now. Have some paperwork to finish up."

"Oh. Alright then. I'll talk to you later. Love you kid."

"Love you too, Dad."

The phone clicks and Kurt is left with the sound of empty air. He watches the images of smiling faces; couples holding hands and beaming with the brilliance of their love as they embrace in a large scale celebration to which Kurt got the weirdest sensation that despite being gay, he wouldn't have felt welcome at. Like the snooty gate crasher who wasn't invited.

Because he was single.

And kind of sad.

And admittedly lonely.

He downs his awaiting glass of wine, and shuts off the TV with an angry jab of his thumb on the remote control. He swallows down the sob, and helps himself to another glass of wine.

* * *

**Puck**

"Dude. You are heavy as shit."

"S'muscle... Aaaasshoole," Puck slurs before breaking into a fit of drunken giggles.

Cedric rolls his eyes and slumps Puck against the wall near the apartment door; one hand pinned against Puck's broad chest while he attempted to unlock the door with his other free hand.

"Fuck you have like twenty keys," Ced grumbles.

"Mmhm," Puck shrugs neutrally. Finally Cedric manages to unlock the door and stumble through it with Puck's arm slung over his shoulder.

"Couch or bed?"

"Couch's closer'n muh'bed."

"Fine. Now take it easy - one foot forward - damn it, Puck! Go slow!" Cedric orders as he lowers Puck onto the couch with an unceremonious thump. He briefly scans over the one bedroom apartment. He spots the kitchen trash can in the corner and grabs it, placing it near Puck's head. He takes the extra bottle of water Gladys gave him from his jacket pocket, twisting off the cap and sets it on the slab of plywood centered on four plastic crates acting as Puck's coffee table.

He comes across the remote control buried underneath an old pizza box, that goes to the small TV perched on an upturned, worn out, bass drum that Joey from the shop had left over after one of their jam sessions several months before. He switches on the TV, quickly eying the contents of the room to make sure he didn't forget something.

He finds himself staring at a single picture of a little golden-haired girl with full, hazel eyes and Puck's impish grin, propped carefully on the ragged dining table positioned at the other end of the room; right near the guitar stand holding an acoustic guitar that Puck had finally caved and bought himself from their store a year prior.

Cedric smiles sadly at the one possession that seemed to mean anything to the guy, given its placement and the expensive looking frame housing it: the image of the little girl that he rarely talked about aloud.

"Alright Puckaroony. I'm out. Sleep it off. I'll see you Monday."

"Mmm."

"Right," and Cedric drifted from the apartment, making sure to lock it behind himself.

Puck turned his head slightly at the sound of the TV blaring. Normally it helped him sleep. But tonight, his mind was still too full of the thoughts of well... everything.

Cancer mostly.

No matter how many drinks he tossed down. It was still there. Eating away at his insides.

He tried to adjust his eyes, blearily blinking to make sense of what was on the screen in hopes of distracting his stupid fucking brain.

He finally hones in on a lot of random colors, and people walking hand in hand, smiling and shouting.

On closer inspection, he notes that there's dudes walking hand in hand. Dude's and chicks of all ages and races, marching together or being driven in cars with their hands clasped together like a gay life-line.

The news reporter was spouting some shit about a parade and equal rights. Puck snorts to himself. Equal rights his fine Jewish ass! He was a prime example of being slapped in the face and thrown out in the street to fend for himself by justice. Least that's what his recent encounter with the flawed health care system had reinforced. Somehow through his drunken haze, he can still recall the hospital social worker's words.

There was nothing they could do. Even if Puck quit his job to apply for aid, there were no guarantee's he'd receive any benefits in time. He'd be placed on a waiting list, and left having to figure out how to get by while he remained jobless for countless months. In other words, he was pretty much fucked.

He groans loudly, then tunes back into the TV.

_"And we're just so happy that not only are we going to be given what we feel is our civil right, but the opportunity to have things that only straight Americans have been privileged to have based on sex. Such as filing joint income tax returns, receiving social security, medicare, and disability benefits. Even being able to receive insurance benefits through our partner's employer. Those are all just some of the things that we'll never take for granted because of the long fight to get here."_

Suddenly the woman who'd been talking while holding probably her wife's hand, disappeared, and the camera cut back to the news studio.

_"Wow. That's truly amazing. Well Jan, now we'll be talking about pesticides in our food. What are you actually bringing home to your dinner table?"_

Puck's mind dances along the lines of conscious thought, ignoring the dialogue now sounding from the TV.

He's not sure why, but he suddenly finds his mind settling on, of all people, Kurt Hummel.

Last he heard, the dude had moved out to LA a while back, and was some sort of fashionista, model-type, or some shit that had to do with clothes or something.

Puck had secretly smiled at the thought of maybe catching up with him sometime. Being that he himself had been a resident los angelian since the end of high school. He never did though. He chalked it up to life getting in the way.

Like it did with basically most of his old friends.

Not that he really had many to begin with. Not that he really had much of a life to begin with.

He bets that Kurt's probably ecstatic at the news that he can finally have his own dream wedding where he lives. He remembers the kid planning Burt and Carole's wedding completely by himself; and that was only in freaking high school. Which even Puck knows is pretty impressive.

Puck recalls the deep maroon and burnt orange colors of the banquet hall. A 'Fall Theme' Kurt had said. Wait that lady who'd been talking on the news had that same color orange on. It didn't look that good on her though. She was a little too husky and reminded him of a pumpkin, which just made him think of pie; and great! Now he's feeling nauseous as hell again, and - holy shit!

Puck sits up, nearly causing himself to fall off the couch and toss his cookies at the sudden movement. What that lady had said. It all came crashing down over him with jolting realization.

"I kin' get insurance if'm married to someone who'asit. I gotta ge'married."

Just as he finishes his sloppy, uncoordinated comment, he feels the tell tale churning in his stomach. He blows chunks in the thankfully present trash can. He'll have to thank Cedric on Monday for that. But till then, he only manages enough energy to slump back on the couch and pass out.

* * *

**Puck (Cont'd)**

"Hell's no Puckerman!"

"C'mon Satan! I've been there for _you_. All the times you were crying about feeling like a lizard, and needing a warm body underneath you when Brittany was cold shouldering you, and you were coming to terms with your vagitarian ways. I was there for that shit remember?"

"Vaguely. And it's not like you're asking me for random sex, or like a bag of M n' M's or something. You're asking me to fucking _marry_ you. Clearly that's exactly the same thing."

Puck growls his frustration into the cell phone's speaker.

"You don't understand. I _need_ this. It's important."

Santana is obviously not convinced by this disclosure as she remains silent on the other end.

"I just - I need it for the health coverage, okay?" Puck continues.

"You seem to forget Mohawk, that I'm only working part time. I don't get full insurance benefits. That and the fact that I live in New York. As in, that's where my life is. You expect me to uproot myself to come play Eleanor Roosevelt to your shotty, Jewish, beard party?"

"Damn. I forgot that you've only been working there for a few months. But you _could_ get full hours and benefits if you actually stayed long enough right?"

"Um, probably not planning on it."

"I thought you liked it there?"

"It's alright. But it's just something to get my foot in the door. I mean it's basically a secretarial gig. Dancing is what brings in the money I need for school."

"Of which you're never gonna leave 'cause you keep fucking changing your major like you change your g-strings."

"Oh and you're one to talk - guy who gives little crumb snatchers guitar lessons and revels in the day when he gets to sell a whole entire drum kit to some washed up wannabe who plays in his living room over Skype for his fake online girlfriend. Not to mention barely managing to scrape his way out of high school, where his biggest accomplishment was knocking up the hypocritical head cheerleader."

Puck's anger is at its peak. It takes every fiber of his will power to refrain from going off. He's that desperate. He breathes, then snarls out, "Look. I wouldn't have asked if I didn't need the help. You know that."

This seems to quiet Santana into a state of momentary contemplation.

"What's the deal anyway? Why do you all the sudden need health coverage when you've like _never_ gone to a doctor before? Except to get your balls fondled when that one kid with the Star Wars sheets mom was your doctor."

"I..."

He couldn't tell her. He couldn't tell anybody. He looks around his apartment. His eyes catch on one of the pamphlets he'd jacked from the doctor the day before. He couldn't pronounce that ridiculously long doctor word that started with an 'F', so he verbally vomits the next best thing his eyes take in.

"I - um - look, I got an STD, alright? It's fucking embarrassing as shit, I don't want to talk about it, I just want to get help for it. It's caused other internal shit to go haywire, I don't have the insurance to get the meds I need, and there's no way I can afford it out of pocket."

"Well fucking well, Puckerman. Little Puck finally caught a cold huh? What is it, gonnorrhea? Herpes?"

"Maybe - look, just, forget it. Never mind. But please just keep it to yourself. I haven't told anyone about this and I'm not planning to. Keep it that way."

"Puck. Wait, Puck!"

"What Santana?"

"Are you okay? Seriously."

Her voice tone had taken on a lighter, sincere quality that Puck could bet had rarely been heard by anyone outside of himself, and Brittany. Her way with bitch was pretty well known after all.

"I'll be okay."

"What are you gonna do?"

"I don't know. I'll figure something out."

Santana pauses.

"Look, I can dance a few extra nights. Send you some money if that helps."

Puck felt his pride punch him in the face at the mere thought.

"No. Thanks, but no thanks."

"Don't make this a pride thing. Especially after you just fucking asked me to marry you like a sad, pathetic, little virgin from the 50's. I mean, priorities man. I don't want you to start doing something stupid just to make money -"

"Oh, what like stripping?" He retorts.

She again grows quiet. He knows he hit a bit of a nerve; that she was aching to retaliate.

"No. 'Cause, you stripping is just - ew. Do you forget that I actually _saw_ you dance when we were in Glee club? Any other stupid thing that would likely be_ illegal_, numb nuts."

"I have a kid. I don't want to set that kind of example for her. You know that."

"Yeah. I know Puck. I know. Well, you better keep in touch with me. I mean it. Despite you somehow managing to still annoy the shit out of me from all the way across the country, I like you enough to care."

"I love you too, Satan. Later."

They hang up and Puck is left in a state of deep thought.

Most of his female friends or acquaintances are already in committed relationships or married. Or they don't have occupations that extend full health coverage for the kind of treatment he would need.

And as much as he hates to admit it, he had actually kicked around the idea of using illegal means. But it was only a momentary thought. He has contacts through his work at the music shop. It wouldn't be difficult to get hooked up with a side-gig selling weed or other substances. But he realizes that it wouldn't make a difference. Unless he was a Cuban drug lord and owner of a long standing drug cartel, petty hustling wasn't going to be enough to cover his medical expenses.

More importantly, he truly didn't want to be anymore of a disappointment to his daughter. Even if it was only through word of mouth.

He started to think of some of the old Glee clubbers.

Quinn was at the forefront of his mind to ask, but she would never agree. Not when she was on the verge of becoming an associate member of the district attorney's law office in Manhattan. That, and being engaged to some schmuck from Connecticut who owned a chain of Subway sandwich shops.

Ironically his next best option would've been Rachel Berry. But she was still attached at the hip to Finn Hudson. Not physically, as they were both managing a long distance relationship. But they were still on and off; currently _on_ he thinks. As much as the Jewish girl made him want to light himself on fire and jump into a pool of gasoline at times, they'd always had an understanding between each other. Probably 'cause of their Jewish roots. But she also was an underbelly, or the back up person on some up and coming Broadway play thing. That alone kissed his already sliver of a chance goodbye. Berry would be too focused on that to ever give up her free time.

He wouldn't dare ask Brittany. He wouldn't do that to Santana. He knows how much she still loves her. Even after all of these years of being split up.

All the other New Direction girls would've refused on principle alone. He was _Puck_, after all. The guy who'd spent a sad amount of his high school days slushying kid's in the face for fun, sleeping with countless girls and probably their mom's at some point, and doing stupid dares like swallowing a thumb tack just to see what would happen.

Yep. He was royally and truly fucked.

He put his head in his hands; his head suddenly pounding fiercely and heavy under the weight of his burden. He felt the tears warm behind his eyes.

He groggily reached for his phone when it buzzes ridiculously loud. He turns it over and peers at the screen.

**From: Ced**

_**Dude, R u alive? Thought I'd make sure.**_

Puck could've laughed at the irony. He punched in a quick reply and hits send.

**From: Puck**

_**Yep. For now.**_

**From: Ced**

_**Yeah u were out of it. Kept buyin drinks for everybody. For a min I thought u were gonna try to skip off with Wyatt and go jump the broom lol. **_

Puck sighs. Fucking idiot. Wasting cash that he could've been saving or sending to Beth. Fuck he was a disappointing dad. Being somebody's husband would crash and burn before it ever began anyway...

And that's when the craziest idea that maybe has ever graced his outlandish Puckerman wave lengths hits him full force.

Being somebody's husband. He kept thinking of all of his _female_ friends. But this was a new world order. He recalls the shit he caught on the tube last night.

_Gay_ _marriage_.

It was legalized; right here in California. He lives in Los Angeles. Which is like gay freaking central as far as this country goes. He's acquainted with some gay dude's, but for some reason, there's only one particular face that swims in his mind's eye.

He knows it's crazy, and that he'll probably get a hard, seething 'fuck off Puckerman!' But hell, the guys lives in LA too, he's definitely of the homo persuasion, and he thinks if he remembers some of his past conversations with Finn, the dude had been single for a while now. Maybe, just maybe, it could work.

**From: Ced**

_**Did u just crash again dude? Still there?**_

**From: Puck**

_**Still here. But am bout to crash again though. Thanks Ced. 4 everything.**_

**From: Ced**

_**Were Bros, man. Its what we do.**_

He jumps up from the couch, then slows himself down after reigniting the swimming, spinny feeling in his head with the abrupt motion. He gingerly opens up his second hand laptop, and immediately logs onto Facebook; the place he avoids as much as he does Temple. It's probably the first time he's been on it other then to play Farmville in months.

Puck skims through his moderate amount of Facebook friends while biting his lip, until he comes across the very name that he's been searching for.

"Bingo."

He clicks on the name, **_Kurt E. Hummel_**, then immediately begins to compose a message.

He prays to whatever God might be listening that this works, secretly making a vow to even start dragging his ass to Temple if this goes in his favor.

* * *

**Kurt**

"Kurt. You've got Michael Barnaby on line one, with Macy's."

"Oh. Shit. Right. Tell him I'm out for lunch and ask if we can reschedule our meeting for later this week. Thursday maybe."

"Got it."

"Thanks, Mickey."

"Of course."

Kurt feels his face flush slightly at the soft expression gracing Mickey's features before he disappears behind the office door.

He was currently busy trying to juggle some swatches of fabric, sketching some new designs, and checking through his e-mail. He was definitely teetering the line of becoming overwhelmed. Which is where he stayed most of the time at this job. He was oddly comfortable with the feeling after years of working under high pressure situations and the constant project deadlines.

A moment later Mickey returns.

"Sorry Kurt. I know you're busy. Um - Alan's on the line for you."

"Tell him to go fuck himself on a spiked metal dildo in the middle of a highway. Thanks."

"Got it. You're out to lunch." Mickey winks before closing the door with a soft click. Kurt didn't miss the sympathetic grin, bordering a grimace.

That last bit of news finally tilts him over the edge.

He puts the fabric pieces down, and instead decides to place his full attention on his computer screen. Something to alleviate the build up of past bull shit that's threatening to overtake him at the knowledge of Alan's attempted contact, and bleed him out into a sobbing mess on his expensive, needlefelt, carpeted floor.

He needed a second to get his bearings. He skips over his work e-mail and instead logs onto his Facebook account. He smiles brightly at several messages and posts from some of the New Direction gang. Tina and Mike were pregnant. _Again_. Mercedes was still on vacation in the Bahamas with her latest beau. Artie was apparently going to wheel himself into a pool from the exasperation of working on his latest documentary project with the posted comment: _Editing is Murder, yo!_

Kurt actually has to squint at the screen when he see's a familiar name that he just can't seem to fathom would be there; in his actual message box.

A healthy mix of reluctance and curiosity are warring inside of him. He releases a heavy sigh, and then proceeds to select the message icon.

**_Hey Princess._**

Kurt rolls his eyes. Still the same Puck.

**_Sorry, dude - Kurt. Old habits you know?_**

**_I know we haven't talked in like - well, ever. But I wanted to reach out to you. We're both natives of the great LA, or I think great white sandy way. Some shit Rachel said before about Broadway or something. Anyway I really would like to catch up. I have something I wanted to talk to you about and I know you're probably super busy being all gay and fabulous in the city - _**Kurt actually snorts aloud at reading that comment. Indeed. Still the same Puck - **_but I wanted to ask you something, and it needs to be in person. As soon as possible actually. So if you could please meet with me, I would owe you big. A fruity (I don't mean fruity as like, you know - fruity, fruity, I mean the actual food kind of fruit) drink with an umbrella, or a grande nonfat mocha, or hell even a gay night out. I can be your body guard and punch out little twinks who can't get the hint, or something. _**

_**Please, dude. Thanks.**_

_**Puck**_

Kurt is baffled. By more than one thing as it were.

First of all, Puck actually contacting him in the first place. Was Hell - if it existed of course - finally freezing over under blistering sleet and snow?

Second, Puck using the word 'please'... twice. A miracle to say the least.

Thirdly, Puck actually knowing his precise coffee order. He never actually went for coffee with him, or even spoke much to him outside of Glee club gatherings, or the random times he came over for dinner at the Hudmel family home, or for the late night video game sessions with Finn during high school. How the hell would he even know that?

And lastly, the fact that he even knew what a twink was. Let alone how to use the word in its correct context.

He re-reads the message just to make sure that he wasn't imagining the whole thing. Then after staring at the screen for several minutes, he finally gives into his curious nature, pulling out his cell and plugging in the number that Puck left within the message.

Normally he would've left it at that. Plugging in the number and making promises to himself to actually call, but forgetting it completely behind his busy-body work existence after a steady period of procrastination.

Normally he would've done that.

But today didn't feel normal.

Not after knowing that _Alan_ of all fucking people was actually trying to reach out to him and disturb his carefully constructed bubble of self preservation.

Not after the conversation he'd just had with his Dad the night previous. About getting out more and having a life. I mean, he had a life... _right_?

All of that coupled with the fact that yes, gay marriage had finally been legalized exactly where he lived - a reminder that he was in fact missing out on so many big things outside of this office. It should've been a big deal. He remembers all the discussions that he and Blaine had indulged in back in high school about the infamous day when this very thing would happen. Fantasizing about their own wedding plans together when it did...

Kurt shook his head to rid the thoughts before they capsized him like the Titanic.

So, with all of that spurning him on, why not catch up with an old - well, with Puck?

He wouldn't be surprised if the guy just wanted a hand out. Probably needed a cash advance or some financial help or something. But if it earned him a free coffee and some much needed amusement, well then - what the hell.

Kurt makes quick work of texting and waits for the reply.

He smiles down at the simple instruction received only moments later to meet at a Starbuck's off of Wilshire. He replies to confirm, and is suddenly finding himself kind of looking forward to the meeting.

* * *

**A/N: Let me know what you guys think. Next chap: Puck and Kurt over coffee. Duh, duh, duh! It may be a while before I can get it posted, it just depends on my time. Thanks for your patience and your blissful words! **


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews from the previous chap peeps! And now let the coffee date begin...**

* * *

**Blessed Benefits**

**Puck**

He was never one to be strategic, or thoughtful... or like, smart really.

But today he was ready to attack this shit like a general. Like a fucking Boss. He had to play it right in order to somehow convince Hummel to do something this major.

He knows that the Princess version of Kurt from high school would've probably laughed in his face at the ridiculous notion. Or slapped him. Or probably both... at the same time. But maybe a few years of growing up away from their respective cow town has loosened the kid up a bit. At least enough to take this as more of a business proposal than anything.

His heart is kind of hammering, and the hand clutching the pre-ordered coffee drink is slightly sweat-slickened. He rubs it through his mohawk, then across his black button down shirt with a look of disgust. That's exactly what he's still doing when he hears it.

"Well, well. Noah Puckerman."

Puck's eyes widen in surprise at being caught practically molesting the front of his own shirt. He stands up from the small table hoping he doesn't look as dumb as he already feels.

He looked the same. But like, different. Taller, a bit broader in the shoulders. Couldn't really refer to him as Porcelain Doll, or Tickle Me Dough Face anymore - the names that were rightfully coined by Coach Sylvester from high school - not when his cheeks had hollowed out and added to his air of grown man-ness. His hair was sprayed up in some James Dean type style - Puck thinks it's called cuffed or something, which suited him. His arms were kind of nice too. Weird. Hummel looked kind of hot; by like, gay dude standards or whatever.

"Hummel," He croaks, and reaches out his hand for an awkward handshake.

Kurt grips it with a curious expression, as if Puck was going to suddenly pull a slushy from underneath the table and toss it over his expensive looking outfit - some thinned out patterned v-neck covered by a veily looking scarf deal, and some sort of grey designer jeans that were hugging the life out of his legs.

Puck feels a wave of guilt crash over him from his past life; that Princess Di would even show a flicker of concern makes him feel kind of bad. But he wasn't that guy anymore. Not really.

Fuck. He wasn't being very Boss. Or general-like. He needed to untuck his dick, and regain control. He nods his head at the chair opposite him and Kurt gingerly takes a seat; both of them now sitting across from each other and settling into the moment.

_Okay, Puck. Now what?_

"I - uh - got you a coffee. Might be sort of lukewarm. Got here a bit early."

_Nice. Sucker him in there with your good, caring, semi-responsible nature._

"Wow. _You_ arriving somewhere early? Be still my beating heart. You actually being on time was always a bit unexpected. So arriving early is definitely a surprise."

"That's what she said." _Damn it!_ "Uh - I mean, yeah. I've finally learned how to read a watch. It's been a useful skill. Keeps me from getting fired anyway."

_Good recovery. Dumb ass. And damn it, why does his inner voice sound a lot like Santana?_

Kurt remains quiet, his perfectly sculpted eyebrows sliding toward his hairline.

"It was a joke Hummel. I actually knew how to tell time since I was five. I just didn't care much for punctuality. Sort of makes me feel trapped. Like caged, I guess."

Kurt's unblemished face morphs into a kind of pleased expression.

"Only you would refer to time as jail."

"I've done my stints in Juvie. Sometimes time is jail."

Puck gets quiet. He wasn't thinking of Juvie anymore. It was cancer that was caging him; chipping away at his time now with a chisel, slowly turned sledge hammer. Fuck, he had to get this right. Everything was riding on it.

Fancy pants takes an experimental sip from his coffee.

"You got it spot on."

"What's that?" Puck shakes his head and tries to refocus. _Be. A fucking. General._

"My coffee order. How'd you know?"

"Oh. I remember you talking to Bow tie - sorry, Blaine Garbler about it once in Glee club. You guys were arguing over whose order was better suited for like, both the day and night or something. Just stuck out for some reason. Probably 'cause I was thinking about how much I'd rather be drinking a vodka red bull or a root beer or something as a pick me up. Came in handy now, though."

Puck thinks he sees a flash of sadness pass over Kurt's face. His eyes look like ice.

"Yeah. It did. Thank you."

"So, catch me up Princess. What's with the scarf? It's freakin' summer time, dude."

Kurt rolls his eyes. Puck is glad to see his smile resurface again.

"It's never too hot in LA for a scarf. Accessories, when done right, can always be an enhancement. Take note of that. But I see that you've obtained a modicum of fashion sense since high school. I noticed that your jeans aren't hanging off of your ass like some blatant homage to the rap-rock genre. Perhaps LA does agree with you."

Puck chuckles. Yep. This was starting to feel more comfortable; the Ice Queen who he'd been accustomed to back in their Ohio existence is coming up for air.

"Well, Santana did use to tell me that I had a pretty nice ass for a dude. I realized fitted jeans tend to work in my favor at the shop. Y'know, helps my sales with the chick customers. Some of the dude's too actually. I'm pretty sure I've sold a couple of drum kits to a few dudes that have never held a pair of drumsticks a day in their lives. Well, if you don't count mascara stick brush thingy's, and probably big, veiny, di-"

"Charming. I get your point. However sexually, discriminatory and prejudicial it may be."

Kurt looks like Jafar from Aladdin, the way his eyes get all squinty. Minus the creepy smile. Puck can tell he wants to say some smart alec, Ice Queen type of comeback to further his point. Surprisingly, he doesn't.

"So, um - a shop?"

"Oh, I work at a music store. It's pretty gnarly. I get discounts on supplies and instruments. I get some down time to write music and jam. And it's a sweet way to pick up on some of the soccer mom's who go in there to buy their kid's their first guitar or whatever."

"Sounds glorious. And perfectly you."

"Thanks, man. But it has it's down sides. Like long hours, mediocre pay. No health insurance. Shit like that. I - um - can't get sick or I'm basically screwed."

Puck pushes past the sudden urge to scream and rage his head off. He swallows it all down and continues with a feigned cheer he wasn't particularly feeling at the moment.

"But anyway. What about you? Tell me about your job."

"You _really_ want to hear about my job? As in fashion related creation and exhibition?"

"I asked. So shoot."

Kurt takes another drag from his coffee. Puck didn't get himself one since he sort of thought coffee was gross, but now he sort of wished he had.

Puck feels himself exhale in relief when Kurt keeps talking; the tense air leaking away as they breech an area that in their years long acquaintanceship, they'd never bothered to touch before.

Puck realizes that he doesn't actually mind talking about gay shit like fabrics and cost effective measures of production, or what working with ornery, bitch fitting models is like. He decides that he likes to see Kurt's smile actually directed at _him_ for a change. It was nice. No matter how little his balls seemed to be shrinking just by listening to probably the gayest dribble in the world. Kurt was excited about it obviously. He could appreciate that.

* * *

**Kurt**

Kurt didn't get it.

Not at all.

Puck was still, well - _Puck_. In a lot of ways. But something felt different.

Maybe _humble_ was the word? Like he'd seen a lot since living in an area away from the confines of Lima, Ohio. Opened his jock eyeballs to other lifestyles and people, and ways of thinking.

He still had his Puck bravado. Hell he'd already referred to himself as the Puckasaurus twice within the last fifteen minutes of the conversation.

He was still rocking that god awful mohawk. It was longer now, sort of fell to the side in a limp comb over. But somehow it worked, accenting his strong jawline and honey-kissed eyes. A color Kurt never really noticed existed in Puck's irises as he'd never really been close enough, or had spoken to the guy long enough to have taken notice.

Kurt wasn't lying when he said he appreciated the quaint but welcomed change in his style: a plain, button down dress shirt as opposed to a t-shirt housing some charming idiom or phrase referring to the size of his penis, or something similarly moronic that he would've cringed at as observed strutting down the halls of McKinley high; and boot-cut dark-wash jeans that sat evenly across his waist instead of pants that hung low enough to touch the tip of his combat boots, and put his Calvin Klein boxer-briefs on display.

He seemed to have lost some weight. Perhaps in his face. But it added to an overall fit look. Less bulging and in your face muscle, but an understated strength that was visible in every twist of his forearm. Kurt tried not to shiver at how tight the shirt stretched across the broad shoulders and taut chest muscles. This _was_ Puckerman after all. He would never live it down if the guy took notice of his momentary lapses in judgment and acquiesce to secret leering.

Kurt thinks he sees what he's trying to wrap his finger around most when Puck talks about Beth, his daughter.

His hazel eyes light up when he talks about Skyping with her several times a week, and that she was going to third grade with an impressive knowledge of multiplication that far outweighed any kid he remembered at that age.

Puck didn't have to say much about her for Kurt to figure it out. It was clear that despite only being in her life through long distance means, the girl was indeed the light of his life.

Kurt remembers how detached and angry Puck seemed to become around the time that Quinn had given her up. He was happy to hear that Shelby Corcoran, who'd adopted the girl as a new-born, had allowed Puck to reinsert himself in Beth's life. Apparently Shelby had shacked up with Beth on the east coast and was making bank as a child care provider who specialized in singing and acting coaching for toddlers and young children at her self created, self owned company called, _Baby Broadway Day Care_. She stayed pretty busy but always made time for Beth to have regular phone calls and Skype sessions with Puck.

It was nice to see Puck smiling.

It was nice to see a _genuine_ one, anyway.

"So you were saying that at your job, you guys get good benefits?" Puck asks off-handedly.

"Fairly good, yeah. I mean, we have a colleague whose been out on sick leave for over two months, and that was just due to some complications with cosmetic surgery. Even though the story's supposed to be that she got injured in some freak boating accident. We get paid leave days which I honestly don't ever use, but are nice to have just in case. We get full dental, medical, vision. Any major medical surgery, hospitalization, or things like that would pretty much be taken care of."

"Wow. That's fucking awesome! I mean - great, dude. So - um, say if your spouse or significant other got sick - some sort of crazy illness, or terminal deal, it'd be covered. No worries?"

Kurt almost flinches at the words illness, and terminal. His mind is fighting to steer clear of darker places.

"Yeah. Basically." He whispers out.

"Man. That's great."

"You seem more excited about my health insurance than I do."

"Good health insurance is a big deal, Princess. It's not easy to come by. Especially with decent jobs being as rare as a freakin' unicorn with the regression we're still in and what not."

"Re-_ces-_sion. And I guess. I don't really think about it much. Then again I don't have much time to get sick. Too many deadlines and not enough hours in the day."

Puck seems to deflate a little. Kurt leans forward into the table, his eyes searching across Puck's cautious expression.

"So are you going to tell me why we're really here?"

And there goes the crooked half-smile. Wiped clean off.

"What?"

"The _actual_ reason for your message. Not that I've minded our little lady chat -"

"Ew."

"But inquiring minds want to know. Plus my lunch break is only so long. It's already been over an hour and you've yet to spill."

"Oh. Right."

Was it him or did Puck actually seem anxious? Panicky even.

"Look Kurt. Truthfully, I'm not even sure how to say this."

Kurt felt himself get tense, but wills himself to wait it out.

"Well, I'm already here. Whatever it is, it's probably better to just say it. That way we didn't exactly waste the trip."

It's strange, Puck looking so... un-Puck like. He almost seemed near passing out; then he squeezes his golden eyes shut as if having come to terms with something, and mutters the words.

"I need you to marry me so I can use your health insurance."

Kurt blinks, then bursts out laughing.

But upon realizing after a solid minute that Puck isn't laughing as well, and looks closer to a three year old whose favorite stuffed toy was murdered in front of his face and left in a pile of its own cottoned innards, he sputters into silence, then swallows.

"Wait. You're serious?"

Puck nods slowly.

"You're not joking? There's no hidden camera or one of your music shop buddies waiting to pop out from one of these booths and say 'hey - joke's on you fag.'"

"Kurt - t-that's awful. Don't say that."

"Okay. Well, you tell me then. What am I supposed to say to that?"

"Look it doesn't have to be a big deal -"

"I'm sorry. It doesn't have to be a big deal? For someone who was told all of their lives how wrong and disgusting the very idea of them being in a relationship, let alone being married is, it's kind of a big deal."

"Yeah. I get that."

"Do you? Do you, _really_?"

"You forget. I'm the Lima Loser, remember? The guy whose only worthwhile accomplishment in life was knocking up a sixteen year old with a silver spoon sticking out of her well privileged mouth. The dude that's good enough to pass around for sex, but never good enough to actually be someone's boyfriend. Trust me. I get it."

Kurt grows pensive. He's finding the words more difficult to peruse and voice aloud as the seconds tick away.

"And here I just thought you were going to ask me for a simple money loan. Instead you want me to... God, I can't even say it out loud."

Puck's eyes narrow at that remark.

"I ain't lookin' for a hand out Hummel -"

"No. You're just looking for _marriage_."

"It's not like I haven't thought of other ways to deal with my situation. I've tried. I just - this is it. When it boils down to it, this is my shot. Right here. With you."

Kurt guffaws, rolling his eyes.

"All you would have to do is sign a stupid paper at the courthouse with me," Puck reasons. "That's it. Then after a few months, we can get it anulled. Like it never happened. I just need your health coverage until I get better. And I'll do whatever I can to pay you back. I swear."

"Better from what Puck? What is it that has you so sadly desperate that you have to stoop so low as to ask the same kid you bullied in high school to walk down the rainbow colored aisle with you? Go on then, tell me!"

"I have cancer, okay?!"

Kurt's heart freezes over. The air inside his lungs feels like icicles battling to melt back into breathable air.

"You, w-what?"

"I said... I have cancer. Stage 2, pancreatic cancer."

Kurt is trying to find the words. Those fucking words that keep eluding him. His mouth feels like a desert it's so dry. But the heat is boiling; riling inside of him as the emotions churn and crash like angry ocean waves.

"You. Asshole."

"Huh?"

"How dare you! How fucking dare you put me in this position!"

Some of the closest coffee patrons are startled enough to unglue their eyes from their laptops and ridiculous, science-fiction chapter books about alien impregnation or something equally fantastical. Kurt almost snorted at the thought. Not anymore fantastical then what was just proposed to him mere seconds ago.

"I wasn't trying to make you feel bad. I just -"

"Do you even know how my mom died?"

Puck pauses.

"I mean, I knew that she died when you were a kid. But I didn't really know how -"

"Cancer. That's how. She died of breast cancer. And here you are, asking me to marry you because you found out that you have cancer. You fucking selfish, deluded, insensitive son of bitch! To try and guilt me into marrying you 'cause of what happened with my mother? What did you think? That I would recall my loss with her and feel obligated to come to your rescue out of sheer monumental guilt? Some dormant hero complex that was gonna make me feel sorry enough to knowingly let you use me?!"

"Kurt - I swear, I didn't - I didn't know -"

"Save it." Kurt flings venomously as he abruptly stands from the table. "I'm sorry about your situation. Truly, I am. But you're not gonna make it mine. Good luck and goodbye, Puckerman. Lose my number."

"Kurt! Kurt, wait!"

Kurt ignores the pleas. He snatched his empty coffee cup from the table, jamming it into the nearby trash receptacle before storming out the door.

He hastily wiped at the tears that had finally managed escape as he marched down the paved side walk toward the back lot where he'd parked his car. He wouldn't dare let himself cry in front of that bastard. Not for a million extra days of life. Or a million designer scarves, categorized by style, color, and organized neatly for wear by designer. Not even then.

* * *

**A/N: So that went well... Lol. You may or may not have been expecting such melodrama but I couldn't make it _that_ easy for Puck. Please shoot me some feedback. I'm curious as to what you guys thought of their meeting. Much love! **


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: This one is all Kurt. Perhaps it will help delve into his thought process behind his behavior during coffee date, and give the guy a little reprieve, lol. I hope so, anyway. **

* * *

**Blessed Benefits**

**Kurt**

It's like his brain was being squeezed in a vice grip while simultaneously being waltzed on in tandem by Lorraine's skinniest spiked heels.

He had so much to get finished, but he was admittedly dragging.

Fucking advil had yet to kick in, and the longer he kept his face pressed against his desk, the heavier his eyelids seemed to feel; drooping against his dangerously waning will power.

The office phone was ringing off the hook. He was seconds away from just taking it off the receiver so he could avoid cringing at the explosion of noise corresponding with every new call.

It was funny. He'd met with Puck only a few days prior, and this stupid headache has been plaguing him on and off since their impromptu reunion.

He's trying to stay committed to his denial. But he has a strong suspicion that's exactly what's fiercely gnawing at his brain and causing him to feel what he imagined an oncoming anuerism felt like.

He felt horrible for leaving the way he had. When the anger over the audacious request had essentially subsided, he was left with nothing but the image of Puck's face.

Puck's face... He'd been associated with the guy for nearly a decade, and he can't recall ever observing that look of pure vulnerability and devastation before.

You knew immediately when the guy was pissed. But you were never certain of any deeper emotional depth or pain as it was carefully masked behind some neutral state of disinterest or outright reckless behavior.

Kurt wanted to call him. He really did. Hell, the minute that he sat in his car, tears spilling fast and body wracked with gross, unattractive sobs - he wanted to give in and call. God, he had never been an attractive cryer. Thank the stars he'd managed to keep his cry face at bay long enough to make it to his car. Wait... right, not calling - he just felt too scarred by his own actions; like they were irreparable.

Kurt doesn't think it's pride - not really. He's so tired of thinking, that he's finally allowed his truth to breathe.

He was honestly scared.

He was scared of tying himself to something so conclusive; the terminal part, not the commitment part. Well a little bit of the committment part too; there had to be some level of involvement for Puck to have access to his benefits and physically put them into place. There would be more of seeing him, being around him. But really the whole thing feels like the adult 2.0 version of facing his mom dying.

He was scared for Puck. After he was done wanting to beat him with his heeled boot of course for asking this of him in the first place. But he gets it. After a lot of self reflection, he truly does.

In retrospect, he wished he could've slowed down long enough to actually process the news instead of letting his inner woman takeover; drowning him in his emotions and leading him to super bitchy, over-reactive land where he tended to vacation from time to time.

He wasn't wrong for being upset. He can stand by that. But everything else that followed...

Maybe he couldn't come back from what he'd said. Puck had probably already written him off as soon as Kurt pushed open that glass door.

He hears the urgent knock through the cocaphonous blaring of his inner thoughts.

"What?" He groans.

"Kurt. I'm really sorry - I - um - I told him that you weren't available. But he's insisting on seeing you."

"Mickey, I told you. I don't want to take any meetings today. I just - I can't today. Tell them I just found out my cat contracted kitty AIDs. Tell them my heart is brimming with liquid asshole and I need to get it pumped before I can deal with people. I don't care."

"You don't have a cat."

"I know that. Please - please... Just firmly but in a politically correct manner, evade them."

"Even me?"

Mickey was bumped out of the way and left glaring daggers at a tall man with a wavy length of blonde-brown hair, disheveled in a way that always managed to look impeccably enticing.

Maybe it was the fact that several tendrils always found their home laid quite strategically over sensuous teal colored eyes. Or maybe it was that fucking perfectly tailored Armani slim fitted grey suit cut to sickening perfection, hugging the lean-athletic build like it was genetically grown in some laboratory for only his body alone.

And maybe...

Shit... shit, shit, shit. Seriously - down Kurt.

"A-Alan. W-what are you doing here?"

Breathe Kurt. Keep breathing.

"Funny you should ask. I was actually - sorry it's hard for me to speak to you when your little guard dog is practically breathing down my neck. Does he need a treat to get him to go away?"

"You have no right to -"

"Mickey. Um - don't mind him. Just give us a minute. Okay?"

"A-are you sure, Kurt? I can get security."

"Not necessary. Just a minute. A small one. Please."

Mickey nods somberly and closes the door. But not before shooting the ultimate death glare at Alan upon his departure.

"Where did you find that feisty little cockblocker?" Alan asks, obviously amused.

"Never mind him. So. Are you gonna answer my question?"

"Sorry. A lot's happened since you asked it. Refresh my memory."

"You. Being_ here_. At my job. Unannounced."

"Oh I've tried to announce it. Several times today. A few last week. You on the other hand weren't trying to receive or reciprocate my contact attempts."

Kurt's heart literally feels like a cement cinderblock.

"Can you blame me?"

Alan smiles, flashing a mouthful of brilliantly white teeth. He steps forward, hands in his pockets as if he was taking a casual stroll down some fairy tale pathway paved from fucking magical gum drops.

"Kurtie. We've talked about this. It was practically a year ago -"

"Seven and a half months actually." Kurt spat while standing up in front of his desk, his arms crossed over his chest as if cloaking himself from potential harm.

"Right. Well, you know I didn't mean to hurt you."

"Oh. Was that what that was? Your attempts to _not_ hurt me. I'd hate to see when you actually try."

"Look Kurtie. I'm not here to dredge up the past. I was in the neighborhood and I wanted to see you. No agenda. No placating BS. I honestly just wanted to see you. That's all."

"Well you saw me. Now you should go."

Alan chuckles; a sound that reeks of apathy. He pauses near Kurt's desk, staring around the room as if gathering his thoughts, apparently lacking any intent to actually follow Kurt's wishes. Not exactly shocking news there.

"You redecorated your office. It's nice. It's very _you_."

"Great. Just something else that isn't worth you keeping your dick in your pants for then."

"C'mon Kurt. I'm trying here."

"_Now_ doesn't matter. Don't you get that?"

Alan steps further into Kurt's space, causing him to lean back into the desk.

"You know I was always a bit hard headed."

Kurt's breathing has picked up pace. This was too much. What the hell is happening? It's like he can't look away from those fucking so pale, beautifully green eyeballs that were currently boring into him, drilling him into a frozen standstill.

"Yeah. I see that hasn't changed."

"People don't change Kurt. Circumstances, actions. But people. People are always who they are. And I - am someone who still cares about you, and wants to be in your life. If you'll let me."

"Be in my life? As what exactly?"

"As whatever you'll have me as. But a friend for starters."

"I take that it didn't work out with Romeblow, or Romeho or whatever."

"Romero. And no. Alas, he was too much of a free spirit for my tastes."

"Couldn't keep his foreign dick in his pants either then?"

For the first time Alan seems struck. Only for a second; his eyes narrowing in submission, but a cool sneer quickly replacing the momentary lapse.

"He wasn't what I needed. In the end. So speaking of, are you dating anyone?"

"Sorry?"

"You. Is there some extremely lucky man out there who gets to claim you?"

It was at that moment he was pulled from his inner wall of panic by the noises being made outside his door. Grunts, cursing, and mild thumping sounds signifying someone trying to enter his office.

_"I told you - you can't go in there!"_

_"It's already done short stack."_

The door handle was being jostled, then a figure suddenly bursts through the entrance.

"P-Puck?"

It's a millisecond - so rapid that it may have been an illusion. But Kurt thinks he caught a brief twinge of the infamous Puckerman side-grin before it melted off of his face just as fast as it had appeared.

"Hi. Uh - sorry. I hope this isn't some meeting about your clothes or something."

Mickey's fuming, red-faced and unsettled as he combs his fingers through his hair to reset the strands that had escaped their gel slickened confinement during their exchange.

"Kurt. I tried to stop him. He wouldn't listen. And he took my cell phone! And that was after unplugging my desk phone!"

"Dude, you threatened to call security. I told you all I wanted to do was talk to him. Chillax, and I'll give you the damn phone back."

Kurt had to stop himself from laughing at the absurd sight. Puck was holding the cell phone over his head while using his other hand to keep Mickey at arms length. He couldn't help but think of the typical jerk older brother being an ass to the younger brother scenario - an ages seven and younger type exchange.

"Puck. Give the phone back."

"Yeah but he's gonna call -"

"Mickey. Get your phone. And give us some space. Please. I'm very sorry, but I need time to re-explain the idea of manners to this Neanderthal."

Puck groans and hands the phone back. Mickey reclaims it with a snatch, a look of seering indignation marring his normally warm features. He then vacates the office, shutting the door behind himself with abnormal force.

"Kurt I just needed to say this. And if you want to throw me out on my ass or call the cops or whatever afterward, then fine. But just let me get this out first."

He wasn't sure if it was the aura of determination, or the passion highlighted in his honey colored eyes. Perhaps the feeling of owing him for his own display the other day.

But he couldn't _not_ listen. Even if he tried.

"You have my attention."

"Kurt, I fucked up. Like royally. And I'm really, really sorry. I didn't come here to see if you'd reconsider. That doesn't matter. What matters is that I wasn't thinking about you in the situation. I was just - I was scared, okay? And um - I just didn't know what else to do. I kind of still don't honestly. So - yeah. I'm sorry if it came across insensitive and selfish. I'm pretty good at being both of those things most of the time. But you didn't and don't deserve that. So is it cool if we could, y'know - stay friends? 'Cause I'm gonna need as many of those as I can get if I'm gonna deal with this thing."

Kurt's speechless. For the first time in a long time.

And just like that, it was if the other day had never happened. At least not the bad parts.

There's a state of what Kurt can only describe as being spellbound that's surrounded them; the silence brewing with good energy. A warm, inviting, positive energy; with a hint of what he could easily mistake as underlying recklessness.

It's abruptly shattered by the sound of slow clapping which brings him away from Puck's earnest hazel gaze.

"Bravo. I don't know who you are. But that was really fantastic. I should've taken notes. Brawny and submissive. Didn't think that a power bottom was your type, Kurtie."

Puck's eyes drag away from Kurt, his jaw clenching tightly as he slowly takes in Alan.

"You some client or coworker or something?"

"Nope."

"Then I suggest you keep your smart ass comments to yourself."

"And who the hell are you?"

"He's my fiancé," Kurt interjects.

Yep. There was that sense of recklessness he'd thought he'd gleaned before.

Both Puck and Alan direct a look of utter disbelief at Kurt as they stare blankly at him.

"Your what?" Alan sputters.

"My fiancé. Oh, right. How rude of me. Alan Williams. This is Noah Puckerman. My perfectly timed fiancé."

Kurt doesn't break eye contact with Puck.

Puck shoots him a genuine smile. Kurt knows that they didn't need to say anything more in the moment; that somehow, they'd come to an understanding with each other that didn't require justification.

Puck walks over to the pair as if an invisible barrier had been broken with those words.

"You're not serious," Alan cries indignantly.

"He is dickface. Very." Puck puts his arm around Kurt's shoulders protectively, as if to prove the point, leaving Alan no choice but to step back.

"I'm his - uh - soon to be full time partner, man candy, lover - er - guy. And - um - this gorgeous - pole smoking little porcelain doll... Well, he's the love of my life."

"Wow, Kurtie. I didn't get the impression that you were taken. I didn't spot a ring."

"Oh. I just - I - uh -"

"Was getting them cleaned. Plus I had some rhinestones I wanted to get put inside the eyes of the super rad skull on mine. Baby knows how I like round, pretty things. Eh, babe?" Puck jokes, punctuating the statement by slapping Kurt's ass with stinging force, resulting in Kurt voicing a strangled yelp.

"Ooh... you. You're just - so silly," Kurt bites out through clenched teeth. Kurt knows his face is painted rouge at this point. Blotched and probably hideous.

He doesn't know what the hell he's doing. At all. But he didn't mind wiping that smug look off of Alan's face; centimeter by centimeter.

He hams it up a bit further, leaning into Puck, and lightly tracing his hand over Puck's chest. If he happened to linger a little longer than necessary, well he was playing a part. Sue him.

"So how long have you been together?" Alan poses with an overt mix of curiosity and peevishness.

"Since high school." "Three months." Puck and Kurt blurt out at the same time.

Both of them halt, then Kurt reiterates.

"We've known each other since high school. But we - um - officially got together about three months ago."

"I've never met you before." Alan addresses Puck skeptically.

"You haven't met a lot of my older friends from high school." Kurt points out.

Alan falls into a tight lipped silence then, examining the pair with judgmental eyes. The expression was unfortunately familiar, and Kurt thoroughly loathed it. He'd seen it enough times directed at him to know how belittling it could be.

"Seems you didn't waste anytime did you Kurtie?"

"Why waste it when we're - um - totally in man love and shit," Puck answers.

"Well you'll have to let me know when the wedding is. But until then, I'll be seeing you around. I just moved back into town a few weeks ago, so I'm sure we'll be fated to bump into each other again at some juncture."

Just as Alan moved to leave, Kurt overhears Mickey's hushed voice being drowned out by a much louder one behind the door, which then flies open with a crushing swing.

"Kurt what the hell is going on?!" Lorraine laments in a shrill tone.

"I was just leaving. But you should ask his fiancé." Alan remarks coolly.

Alan then squeezes past the duo standing slack jawed in the doorway. Mickey seems both disappointed and disbelieving, while Lorraine's expression had transformed from murderous to inquisitive; like she was examining one of Kurt's newest proposals.

"Kurtie. I'll be in touch," Alan announces just before disappearing.

Finally after a moment of silent evaluation to which Kurt feels like his heart is close to exploding, Lorraine breaks it with a much more friendly air.

"Well, I see that you've taken my advice." She exclaims, raking her ravenous Cougar eyes up and down Puck's physique. He feels Puck press into him more under her blatant sexual scrutiny.

"Ms. Warrenson. He tore the wire out of the phone, and basically ripped the phone out of the wall!"

"Hush, Mickey! It's a phone - not a diamond encrusted time machine. Hm. I like. I _really_ like. Obviously Puerto Rican -"

"I'm not actually Puerto Rican -"

"With a good hard face. Soft, amber colored eyes that ooze sex appeal, but also say 'I'll love you... and your fatherless kid, and your elderly grandma too if only you'd invite me in and let me be with you' - what's the word? ... Yielding. No wait! Delicate, that's it. Warm, and delicate."

"Hey!"

"Wrapped up in a wannabe badboy package. Sheer perfection."

"Uh - what's happening right now?" Puck questions with an affronted expression.

"I don't know." Kurt whispers back. "Just go with it."

"Kurt. I don't know who this Puerto Rican, garden tool wielding stallion with Geronimo's ridiculous haircut is -"

"My fiancé."

"Right. Well your exotic mail order husband is going to be the face of our newest campaign."

"Wait - I'm what now?"

"Lorraine. He doesn't know anything about modeling. That's not -"

"A discussion we're going to have. Because he's it. And you want to make me happy, right?"

"Yeah - but -"

"No buts. Except his in my photos for your line. End of dialogue. Now not that I don't mind a little office sex."

Kurt is dying. He knows it. His face was on fire. And he could feel Puck shifting uncomfortably next to him. But to his credit, Puck was still pressed to his side, arm slung over his shoulder where he'd originally planted it minutes before.

"Hell I'll usually encourage it. Especially between you two. Because good God, the levels of sexy are causing me to awkwardly fantasize as we speak. But we really can't have him or your other ex-boyfriend's coming by to drop trou for epic threesomes at the work place."

"I - we -"

"Save it, Hummel. Report to me later with your ideas for your boy toy. Oh, and congrats. Make sure to get me an invite to the wedding."

Lorraine then struts out of the office, followed lamely by Mickey who closes the door with an almost defeated air.

Kurt slumps out from Puck's hold, leaning against the desk with his eyes closed.

Puck slides next to him, leaning against the desk in a similar manner.

"So? How are you gonna tell 'em?"

"Tell them what Puck?"

"I mean. It's cool. I can just storm out of here. Make a scene. Yell about how you're too good for me. Maybe use that asshat with the lustrous wavy woman hair as an excuse. Whatever you need to so we can - y'know, 'break up' and help you save face. I'm sure your scary little midget boss will understand."

"What are you talking about?"

"Us. Like - the marriage thing. You don't have to do it. I'm not expecting it."

"Oh we're way beyond expectations Puck. I think it's safe to say that we're both in this together now."

"Wait - what?"

"You heard her. I need you for this project. And now they all know you as my fiancé. Plus Alan - he - it'll be better so he can be... I don't know. Just -"

"You don't have to explain. I get it."

"Bless you."

Kurt was thankful. Because how do you explain that you basically wanted to make your ex jealous and regretful, and maybe cry his shame while he re-apologized until his throat was raw? That, and he just didn't want to give Alan the satisfaction of knowing that Kurt was still sadly alone after their break up.

For all those reasons. But also because after all was said and done, he wanted to help Puck. Despite his initial reservations, and their sordid past. It just felt... well, right.

"So that tool was really your ex?"

"Unfortunately."

"Dude. I'd never thought I'd say this. Especially about anybody you'd be involved with. But I actually think you got a better deal with me. And that's saying something."

Kurt exhales a heavy sigh, trying to allow his body to seep the intense rigidity that came with this crazy making, soap opera charade that just occurred in his office.

"For once Puck, I'm not arguing with you there."

* * *

**A/N: Hope you guys liked it! Let me know your thoughts. I wrote this while fighting sleep so here's to it not being impacted by that too much. Thanks for the reviews and keep 'em coming. **


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Puck's turn this time. I know this chap was a bit delayed and it's not all that long but I hope you dig it for what it's worth****. I've been dealing with sickness, excessive work loads, and family/friend birthdays these past few weeks so needless to say writing got put on the back burner for a bit. Also regarding any movie references, etc, I own them not. Anyway, enjoy!**

* * *

**Blessed Benefits**

**Puck**

"Kurt! He keeps squirming and making the sequins fall off."

Kurt removes the needle he'd been clenching between his teeth; looking up from the piece he was restitching to take in the sight of Mickey's flushed face hovering near Puck's junk, trying to reglue several of the little plastic thingy's that had fallen from the design.

Puck couldn't help but think the kid was being a whiny little hater. Probably still reminiscing on how Puck had manhandled his desk phone the week before, and was looking to make waves.

Kurt had only agreed to let the kid help on set today because he'd felt bad the way that Puck and that douche with the outdated boyband crop had stormed in, and got him all flustered the other day.

At least that's what Kurt had told him when the kid showed up carrying supplies and started making quick work of setting up gear, all while glaring Conan the Barbarian sized swords at Puck from behind his square rimmed glasses.

Well... it didn't really matter. It's not like Puck knew what the shit he was doing anyway. Dude, he was wearing like girl make up: eyeliner and eye-shadow powder stuff or whatever for fuck sakes. What the hell did he know about this fashion crap?

Or like he would actually ever be caught dead wearing fucking glittery plastic tiles that he recalls once seeing on this ridiculous party dress his mom wore on several special occasions - basically meaning the times she got hammered with some potential fuck buddy, and returned home with the thing all wrinkled and used, and smelling of sex.

He almost throws up in his mouth a little at the thought.

"Hey, I'm trying not to move but these stupid sequin things are making me itch dude. I can't help it."

"Kurt I'm getting gray over here," the gangly looking photographer complains. "We used an entire roll and got like three usable shots. Can we get the rest of these shots done before my balls drop any lower, please? We've got about an hour left for the day and I have a date with Netflix and a Pretty Little Liars marathon."

Kurt is starting to look downright irritable at this point as he puts down the materials and marches over to Puck, looking all purposeful and scary.

"Sorry John. Let me just have a word with my model."

He grabs Puck by the elbow and steers him off to a corner away from the blaring set lights and gray backdrop, and that dickwad John; the self righteous photographer who seemed a bit too much like the creepy guy in the mall who takes baby pictures for Puck's taste.

He didn't like the looks of his wispy little Hitler mustache, or that lazy eye that apparently liked to take in Kurt's ass a lot. And if he wasn't crazy, which he wasn't certifiable or anything, just a bit off center when it came to not caring about himself - _his_ ass too. He was more than positive he'd caught that lazy gaze, all lusty and creeptastic, scoping out his goods when he'd been wearing those leather pants before he'd changed into this current get up: a pinkish top that looked like he'd been in a fight with a mountain lion and had laid outside during a rain storm that rained black sequins, covered by strappy, narrow black suspenders, and tight dress pants with zippers running up the sides.

It took a lot for him not to storm over and punch the guy square in the face; that, or just walk the hell out. He didn't like being ogled. At least not by the poster boy for mall-going pedophilia.

"Ow! Jesus Princess. What gives?"

"Did you even attempt to look at the portfolio I gave you?"

"What, all those pictures of model dudes? Yeah I glanced it over."

Kurt's eyes get all beady and are actually getting squintier by the second.

"Okay, I skimmed."

Kurt still wasn't budging. He could feel the judgment seeping from the kid's pores. Puck doesn't know how, but his tongue would somehow always automatically loosen against his will when facing that particular look. He remembers Aretha, also known as Mercedes, calling it Kurt's 'bitch face'. He would definitely fist bump her for coining that one if she was here, 'cause, fuck...

"Fine, fine. I didn't _exactly_ look at the thing. Besides I had some important things on my agenda, so it sort of ate into my time -"

"Such as?"

_Shit. Okay, right. Be cool, Puckerman._

"Um - well there was Joey's birthday. I couldn't miss that. I've known the dude long enough to allow him into the bro pack. Which is our version of the Hang Over's Wolf pack, not those glittery, chiseled Twilight assholes. And I'm still sort of using his bass drum as a TV stand so - yeah. It wouldn't have felt right to miss it."

_You're dying Puck. Gotta come with better, dude._

"Plus they were giving out freebies at the bar."

_Better just got translated into retarded. Perfect. And Kurt's face obviously agrees with that._

"Puck, I asked you to do one thing - one thing. Just look through the book and get some of the poses down. That's it. And you didn't even bother after knowing how important this is to me. This line is a big deal for me. It's my way of stepping out of the box and creating something more fashion forward. Something that's atypical and daring for men."

"Hey I told you, I never wanted to do this in the first place. I just got basically steam rolled by Midgetar the Heeled Banchee into doing this whole deal - which is like the top thing I can think of that I'd never actually be good at -"

"Oh now isn't that the Jewish pot calling the gay kettle black. Funny getting something dumped on you that's completely out of your comfort zone, awkward, and downright ludicrous, and having to deal with it for someone else's sake. Hmm, I think I know someone who that recently happened to actually."

"Dude, I'm wearing fucking sequins and Pepto-Bismol pink. Not to mention the smoky whore eyes."

"Well what about Theatricality week in Glee? The time you dressed up as Kiss? You commented on having whore lips and even did your research on it. What's the issue now?"

"Well when I dressed up in the Kiss costume back in the day that was one thing. It was around all you dopes in Glee, but fuck, this could be actually _seen_ by people. Apparently a lot of them. In what world would I ever be comfortable, or actually look hot posing in something that makes me feel like a dickless Ken doll?"

Kurt steps forward, gripping the front of Puck's slashed up sleeveless number with the mom rhinestones, or sequins as he's grudgingly learned they're called, draping across it.

"The world where you ask me to marry you just so you could use my insurance. _That_ world," Kurt whispers heatedly, face coloring like a crayon drawing with every breath.

Puck swallows down the retort. When you cut through the bull shit, which Princess was surprisingly awesome at doing like a gay ninja warrior, he was right. _Again_.

Neither had asked for this. Well... he _had_ asked Kurt to marry him. This was just something unexpected that came with the territory, which he'd pretty much started with his random, super gay, kind of life altering request. Why was he being such a bitch about it when in actuality, this is really his own damn fault? Kurt probably didn't want this anymore than he did. Damn... he feels the honesty lurking and crawling across his tongue before he can stop it.

"Kurt. I'm not good at this. Okay? I just - I don't know what I'm doing and I... I get that it's a big deal and I don't want to mess this up for you. Which I'm clearly doing."

"You're not. You just have to dig deep. Suck it up, and find that Puckerman cockiness that you always sported in high school. Y'know? The Puck who used to brag about sleeping with people's moms, and running cars through store fronts for fun. The pursed lip Puck, who'd kick anyone's ass who told him that he didn't have enough balls to take on..."

Kurt pauses, a far off look taking over his pure skinned face that makes Puck's stomach tighten up at what crazed idea might be accompanying it.

"Er - Kurt?"

"A dare," Kurt finally breathes, like he's coming back to the real world after figuring out some braniac equation full of statistics and boring facts that could single handedly change man kind or some shit.

"I dare you to own this photoshoot."

"What?"

"You heard me. I dare you to own this thing like only Puck could. I double dare you to make this thing your bitch."

Puck could feel his mouth twitching into a smirk.

"Okay. And if I win? I mean if I rock this thing, what do I get?"

"Seriously, Puck? Is agreeing to _marry_ you suddenly not enough?"

"C'mon. Look at me, man. I need motivation. I'm a sex shark with no water, here. I'm freakin' dying."

Kurt grows quiet again, thinking.

"I'll give you a facial."

"Gay."

"I'll take you to a play."

"Even gayer."

"Fine. Okay, then. I'll give you a day. Anything you want me to do, I'll do it."

And Puck thinks they've stumbled onto something. He likes the leery look of uncertainty mixed up with determination easily spotted in Kurt's ever changing irises. Kind of the same one that Puck remembers him sporting when he bravely walked down the halls of McKinley High dressed in some crazy Lady Gaga ensemble for their Theatricality assignment.

"Like play Rock Band?"

"Yes."

"And eat Nachos with the works, without one complaint about carbs and their effect on your hips?"

"Sure."

"You'll drink beer. Not that light shit either. The real deal, calorie filled, actual beer that doesn't taste like old fruity pebbles, or apple pie."

"Fine, Puck. Yes."

"And you'll um - go with me to the hospital? Whenever I make the appointment, I mean."

He knows that last one made him sound pathetic. But Kurt doesn't comment on it. Thankfully.

Kurt instead gives him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder, his blue eyes less cloudy and fierce looking.

"I was already planning on it Puckerman. And as a bonus, I'll even let you have a hand in our ceremony. If we decide to have an actual one that is. Not the outfits. But maybe the music."

Both turn at the sudden clicking sound going off across the room. The Creep has his camera pointed at them, a weird smile plastered on his face.

"There's hope for you yet, you tragedy whose head looks like a vaginal landing strip. Now look at him again."

Puck raises an eyebrow. "What?"

"Stare at him like you were. It had something to it that made you look less like a zombie. Go on."

John slides his way over, snapping away as he glided over in a pretty impressive show of stealth, and Puck is for some reason giving into the instruction; not exactly sure at what he'd done, but hoping that he at least finds some middle ground.

He hears John clicking away, sees the dude out of the corner of his eye, bending down and maneuvering around them to get certain shots.

He just keeps looking at Kurt.

And then he backs away, feeling suddenly different. Feeling like the same kid that Kurt had described - like he wasn't just some sad-sack, minimum wage loser, with a cluster fuck of cancer and no hope.

It was like he could taste life being breathed inside of him - the idea of a classic dare coursing through his veins like new blood. And just for a moment, the old Puckasaurus is sniffing the air and ready to take names.

He pulls at the thin suspender straps, and yells as loud as he can.

"Ooh yes! I like it. Get angry. Now move more. Yeah, just like that. Excellent."

Puck eyes the camera with what he knows are his best sex eyes, like he'd just creamed a bucket load on some random blondy's tramp stamp winking up at him after an all nighter of bar trolling and aimless sex.

He lets himself go, not posing really - just being a character, the same one he'd played in high school for so many years. He pulls down the straps, letting them hang and allowing the shirt to slide off his shoulder. After a while he loses the shirt completely, spinning the sequined, pink hybrid over his head like an animal, then flings it to the side.

Creeper sounds close to cumming in his drawers they way his voice goes up a few octaves, and gets all breathy.

Puck grabs a nearby light fixture and twirls it, wielding it like a sword, holding it above his head and then swinging it between his legs, bucking it forward like a monstrous dick.

"Fucking perfect. Fierce - fierce - yes, love it! Love it to death you perverted little primate. More of that."

All the faces seem to blur into nothing, and the room is library quality silent, except for his manic movements, the rapid clicking of the camera, and John the Creepers' gasps of delight and praise.

Then with a dark gleam and a thunderous growl, Puck smashes the fucking thing on the floor, splintering the bulb into shards.

The yells of shock are drowned out by his own heavy breathing.

The room is like a grave yard. Seconds that feel like pieces of forever pass by.

"I think we got it," Creeper finally exhales with a quiet intensity.

He looks up at that, still gripping the thicker end of the useless light stand. He nearly laughs at the sight of photo jockey's flushed face, the large forehead lined with beading sweat, like he had in fact actually came in his obnoxiously tight pants.

His eyes drift over to where Kurt is standing in the background, his pale hand covering his mouth and eyes blown wide open in shock.

It would've been hilarious if he wasn't suddenly scared shitless that he'd ruined everything; shattered his chances just like that damn light.

"Um - yeah. That was - um - take five, everyone," Kurt calls out, blinking like he was trying to outblink his thoughts or something.

"No, Kurt. I think - that's it. We're done. We got it. Can I - um - get someone to clean that up? And someone get me a fucking cigarette, stat!" Creeper directs while fanning himself off.

Puck feels the adrenaline ooze out of him like a sour goopy substance - which makes him think of that movie the Blob, and drops the stand; the hollow clanging sound bringing him back to reality.

It was weird. Like he had transformed into the freaking Hulk, completely lost himself, along with his shirt, and was standing in the aftermath of his destruction with only confusion and a naked torso to show for it when he'd come to his senses. He strides over to where he'd stashed his own clothes, grabbing them up, and then makes his way past Kurt.

"I'm in the mood for Nachos now. I'll be waiting out front."

Kurt barely manages to squeak out a confirmation before Puck disappears out the door.

* * *

**A/N: So I can be honest when I say I wasn't sure about this one. The idea popped in my head, and I just let it flow. I get an idea and I let it lead me, I guess. In other words I'm not exactly sure where the story is going but I hope its to a place we can all dwell in harmony, lol. I'm hoping to get the next one up within a shorter amount of time but no promises. Thanks you guys for your reviews from last chap and please continue! I enjoy your feedback, it's like anonymous guidance which can really spawn ideas and definitely inspires my will power. And also if anyone was interested, I'd love to hear about any ideas you guys might have for future outfits for Puck. Just in case I decide on more photo shoot scenes. :) **


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Kurtie again. Lots of dialogue and banter. My favorite. Thanks to all who've been reviewing, following, etc. Enjoy!**

* * *

**Blessed Benefits**

**Kurt**

God this was disgusting. He groans in distaste. He could literally see the grease sliding down the string of cheese dangling from the chip, connecting it the massive pile of its Nacho brothers and sisters sitting between them on the table top. He randomly thinks of a Cirque Du Soleil performer, eloquently maneuvering across an orangy-yellowish colored stage as he watches the line of grease descending and swiveling in an interesting ringlet down the cheesy coating...

And then he see's a light brown hue, crowded by a full thatch of eyebrow above it; its neighboring brow raised up - resulting in a familiar expression that was an obvious question mark.

"What?"

"Dude, you're eating like - if Mary Poppins and the Queen sexed it up and had a miracle baby that drinks bottles of water with their pinky up."

"Oddly, I'm actually flattered by your assessment."

"Whatever. This isn't high tea Hummel. Stop nibbling at it like a baby squirrel, and shovel that shit in your mouth hole."

"Could you be anymore crude?"

Puck huffs then removes the offending chip from Kurt's fingers.

"Hey!"

"Open up."

"W-what?"

"Open your dong gobbler."

"No. Are you serious?"

Puck rotates the chip in circles, slowly bringing it closer to Kurt's lips as if placating to a toddler.

"You don't open up, I'm shoving it in."

"You're not feeding me," Kurt deadpans.

"Open."

"No."

"Ooopen."

"Nope."

Puck's eyes are narrowed in challenge. "Fine. But you brought this on yourself," and he makes to push the chip past Kurt's pursed lips.

"Okay, okay. Fine. But if I choke, don't you dare perform CPR on me."

"It's cool. I'll find you some closeted gay hottie lurking around and get him on the job."

"Whatever Puckerman. Just - give me the damn chip."

Puck grins triumphantly as Kurt rolls his eyes and lets the chip settle on his tongue. He chews as if its killing him, but truthfully, despite the overload of flavors which only reminds him about the grease factor involved, he kind of likes the taste. Not that he'd ever admit it to Puck. God - he seriously looks like Chanukah just exploded over his face - his sense of absolute delight is overkill and fairly childish... But kind of infectious; in a weird Puckerman type way.

"Ha! Knew you'd like it. Now swig the beer."

"But I just ate the chip."

"Swig the damn beer Hummel, it's the only way. Now - go, go, go!"

Kurt's eyes are never going to stop rolling around like marbles at this rate. He's probably broken a record or something. He tips back the beer bottle - which, ew - drinking from the bottle with his actual lips - gross - and takes a healthy swig, gulping down the amber liquid with a grimace.

"Booyah! Fuckin' alright, man. Sweet!"

"Not at _all_ sweet."

"Totally the point. Beer's not supposed to be like some candy spritzed with a perfumy aftertaste. It's supposed to be wheaty, and manly. Beer equals musk, and dark, and full bodied, and -"

"Bloating, and health problems, and death."

Kurt winces at his own choice of words. They meet eyes, and Kurt feels like a tactless cretan. But Puck simply gives a small grin, lacking a bit of his normal charm, but a grin none the less.

He'd popped whatever had been happening like a wanderlust-filled soap bubble, coming to its very unexpected, and dramatic demise. Their goofy, light hearted exchange was suddenly drenched in the reality of why they were actually in each other's company.

"Stop. I can see you doing it. You're overthinking. Don't."

"I'm sorry, Puck -"

"I already told you - just don't. It's cool. I mean, we have to face facts. I still have cancer. That doesn't go away just 'cause I got you to drink a beer and eat real food with like - actual taste."

Kurt looks over at him shyly, anxious over where to go from here.

"You swear I'm a rabbit."

"Aren't Vegans basically like a hybrid of rabbit and rainbow? Eating raw shit from the land, and being one with nature or whatever."

"Um - okay - no. And also, I'm not even a Vegan."

"Really? But you've always eaten like salads and stuff."

"You're thinking of a Vegetarian. And just because I like to eat healthy doesn't mean I've cursed the consumption of all meat products."

"Ha!"

"Don't you dare."

"You said it, not me."

"Talking to you is the equivalent of engaging a pre-pubescent teenager. You constantly try my patience."

"Thanks. You make it sound like an awesome hat. So... sausages, then?"

"I'm seriously going to smack you."

"Right. Hotdogs. Got it."

Kurt ignores him by tipping back his beer and gulping down half of its contents. Puck chuckles to himself while sipping on his own bottle, a stupid twinkle in his eye that overtly showcased his perceived victory.

"You were good by the way."

Puck looks up, scrunching up his face in confusion as if he hadn't exactly heard right.

"What the modeling stuff? Nah - I just acted like a lunatic."

"But it paid off. John was more than a bit mesmerized."

And so was he, if he was being honest with himself. Puck had definitely gotten Kurt's attention; every wild gesture keeping him fixated and frozen in a subdued, sort of quiet awe.

"I guess. Long as you were happy with it. I just didn't want to screw up so bad you ended up getting fired or something. Sort of defeats the purpose of the whole 'getting hitched to use your insurance' thing."

Kurt smiles openly, takes another sip.

"Yeah. So, I think we should actually talk about that."

Puck's mood seems to darken.

"You wanna go back on it, right?"

For some reason, Kurt feels like he's been slapped in the face.

"No. No. Not at all."

"Oh. Cool, then."

Kurt bit back the laugh he desperately wanted to emit at the look of relief that quickly reclaimed Puck's façade. "So what's up?" Puck states with a bold attempt at nonchalance.

"Us. Getting married."

"What about it? Should be easy. We just go to the courthouse, spew out some words about love and - I dunno, whatever crap you're supposed say when you get married, and sign some papers. We're good to go."

"It's not that easy. I mean - I think we should establish some rules. Have some boundaries - you know?"

"Uh - you realize you're talking to the Puckaroon, right? King Puckfasa, the Puckasaurus... Rules and he, don't mix well."

"First off, you just killed your whole weird, third person reference speech to being a badass with your use of proper grammar and syntax. Second, what about our families? Our friends?"

"What about 'em?"

Seriously. His eyes actually hurt from the constant rolling.

"Do we even tell them? Can you imagine what our friends from New Directions would say? Finn? His simpleton mind and overlarge golden boy heart couldn't take it. And, Rachel? Blabber mouth might actually fly out some world renowned Psychologist to do a house call. Oh God - what my _dad_ would say?"

"It's not your dad's talking I'd worry about. More like his aim. Easy answer. Don't tell 'em."

"I don't know, Puck. It's supposed to be a legitimate union, right? Don't you think at least our closest should know? Explain the situation a bit so nobody - particularly my dad - goes ballistic."

"Hey Puck. How goes it?"

Puck flourishes his trademark grin at the woman standing over the table. A rather buxom red head, adorning a tight black t-shirt with the logo of the bar cornered just above her heart. Kurt shivered at the tacky, unevenly stitched label reading, 'Eager Beaver'. Did anyone even pretend to be imaginative these days?

"Yo, G. It's pretty good. Just finished flashing my ass -"

"But you just got here. And since I served you myself, I hardly think you had enough to bring out your oh, so chivalrous and romantic side quite yet -"

"Nah, nah. Like a modeling thing. Actual fashion type get ups and the whole nine. The designer is actually... He's pretty amazing. Creative, daring, willing to take risks. Somebody who's really gonna make it freakin' huge. Forgot to tell him that. It was strangely... kind of fun."

Kurt was thankful that the lighting was dim in the dank bar atmosphere. He was sure his blush would be like a strobe light, pulsating and bright.

"Puck I don't know how you get involved in the shit you do. But hey - I'm glad for you. Make sure to get me some prints so I can blackmail you with it later."

"Gotcha Debbie Downer."

"So who's your friend?" the woman named G, poses as she flashes a courteous smile at Kurt.

"Oh. This is... well, my uh -"

"Kurt. I'm Kurt. Nice to meet you, G."

"Gladys. This fucker and his drone friends are just too lazy to call me by my _actual _name."

"Sounds like an accurate conclusion. The lazy part."

Gladys chuckles candidly, pulling out a pen from her pocket and steadying her writing hand over the small note pad.

"Very. So can I get you guys something else? Another beer? More Nachos or maybe some wings?"

"I'm fine, thanks. Just the check."

"Um - no - you're not fine. He's having a shot."

"What?"

"Get him a Cupid, G."

"Um, that won't be necessary," Kurt tries.

Puck pulls out a twenty. "Make it two."

"Sorry Kurt, but I gotta go with the guy waving the cash in my face. Two Cupids coming up."

"Are you forgetting that we need to go home at some point?" Kurt protests.

"Why did you do that?" Puck counters; oblivious to Kurt's previous inquiry.

"Sorry - do what, now?"

"Why did you cut me off? When you introduced yourself to G."

Kurt was baffled by this admission. He was sure his face wasn't doing much to hide his incertitude.

"I did that so you wouldn't feel obligated to have to introduce me as your fiancé. It's already awkward enough as is. I don't want you to feel weirded out with your friends too."

"I wouldn't. Feel weirded out, I mean. Besides, _your_ co-workers know. Your Boss. Hell, even your garbage truck sized douchebag of an ex, knows."

"But I'm also actually gay. It wouldn't be a stretch for me. You on the other hand... aren't. So I don't want you to feel forced to let people know, or have to pretend to be something else that you aren't. It doesn't feel fair to put you in that position."

The silence overtakes them. Puck looks as if he's actually pouting. Gladys returns with two broad-scale shot glasses, brimming with dark liquid.

"Enjoy, boys."

"Gladys?"

She turns on her heel. Puck is still staring at Kurt.

"This is Kurt. My fiancé. We're gonna be getting married soon."

The red head, blinks - her mouth opening and then closing, like a waterless goldfish. It was obvious she was waiting for the punch-line, but when Puck remained stoic, she suddenly found her voice again.

"You - wait - like, you're together. With him. Commitment. Boning. All of that stuff?"

"Yep."

Kurt's face is on fire. He swallows, trying to ignore the sensation that Puck's determined glare is inciting within him. It's defiant, and hard, and full of that bravado that solely oozes one, Noah Puckerman.

"Oookay. Can't say I saw that coming. But I always did think that you and Wyatt did way too much meathead, frat boy, homo-erotic kind of shit to not be at least a little bit gay. Congrats, though. Kurt here is completely gorgeous and even though I don't know you from a hole in the wall, I can tell that Puck here is extremely, enormously, enviably lucky to have you. Give me the info for the wedding later. Love to be there."

"Um -"

Is all Kurt can muster, before Gladys has disappeared again. Puck shoots down his own shot, and breathes out the sting. He then stands up on his chair.

"Er - Puck, what are you doing?"

Puck puts his hand to his mouth, and whistles loud enough to cut across the bar; every head turning in his direction.

"Puck?"

"Hey there Beaver patrons. I recognize a lot of your faces. Some I don't. But I hope you're still willing to give me a minute of your time. 'Cause I just wanted to let you all know something very important."

"Puck. Please - oh my God, don't -"

"That I'm a flaming, flametastic gay."

Kurt has officially died. His face was buried in his hands as proof.

"And for any women I may have slept with who're listening, it wasn't your fault. It's nobody's fault really. I just - I like cock. I like this guy's cock the most though. So much so, that I'm gonna be marrying it - well, him. So please raise your glasses to my baby boy, Mr. Kurt Hummel, soon to be Mr. Noah Puckerman. Or like - Puckerman-Hummel, or Puckmel, or whatever. Point is, this is gonna be my husband, and I want to salute our love. So without further ado, to Kurt!"

Various shouts and echoes of the same words drill across the bar, people smiling, and milling about; laughing, swigging back their beers, and many others slack jawed and staring in disbelief; as if Puck was some two headed vagina monster.

"Oh. My. God."

"Salud, young Hummel."

"I'm gonna kill you. Like - murder and bury you."

"What? I thought you'd be happy about that?"

"That you just humiliated yourself an indefinitely me as well?"

"Just take your shot and relax, Princess."

"I can't - I don't - what the hell did you do that for?"

Stupid Puck. Stupid shit eating grin plastered on his tan face.

"I told you I don't care about you being gay. And I've ultimately never _really_ cared about what people think about me. What matters in this equation, is you. And you not thinking I'm too chicken shit to claim you. I'm in this one hundred percent, dude. This ain't high school anymore, and this definitely ain't Lima - I hate everything not white or Christian - Ohio, either. I'm not ashamed or scared of people thinking I'm homo. You're a good dude. You deserve somebody who isn't ashamed of that, and everything you are. Even if with me, it's just pretending and shit. So, anyway, drink up Hummel. The night's young."

Kurt didn't know what to say; so he drank instead.

* * *

**A/N: I had fun with this chapter. I want to try my best to keep the light hardedness in this fic. Sure there will be un-fun times obviously as well but I really am having a ball with the ribbing, bantering, shit talking stuff. Hope you guys liked it. Also about the drink the Cupid, I made that up. I know there's Cupid drinks out there that are kind of girly, and martini like. But for sake of the story, let's just say its something that can be taken in form of a shot. Also the Eager Beaver, I heard the name before and it may be an actual bar, so disclaimer on that just in case. I like the name so - yep. Reviews! Thanks! **


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: My sincerest apologies everyone. Life's been full of what feels like everything lately including attending and being in (ironically, I suppose) my friend's wedding. Anyway though, both of our guys are in this one. Disclaimer on any actual products, shows, movies, etc. I mention. This one turned out a bit longer so I hope that's a bit of a consolation for the long time it took to get it posted. Let me know what you think. **

* * *

**Blessed Benefits**

**Kurt**

It hurts to blink.

But he does anyway, trying to acclimate to the real world where apparently the sun was the enemy, leaking through the blinds in a cascade of concentrated light that was eating his face.

He groans, a sound that if he cared more about honesty in the moment, was really a whine. But he doesn't care. Not when his head and stomach must have stayed up during the wee hours plotting and planning their execution of the perfect assault when he awoke. He's tempted to use his arm as a shield, and try to trick himself into sleep again - 'cause for the love of Prada was he feeling like shit that got ran over twice.

He thinks about it... for several minutes actually.

But the adult, responsible part of him was being an insistent little prick this morning. So he groggily sits up, stretching his arms and rolling his shoulders to the chorus of several satisfying pops.

His surroundings slowly materialize, unveiling from a blur of drab colors into a... well, an unfamiliar, messy, bedroom of drab colors.

What the hell happened last night? Better yet, where the hell is he?

Did he have - No... he couldn't have...

He pulls the comforter and single sheet back, breathing a sigh of relief at the fact that he's still in his pants, a sign of virtuous restraint. Uncomfortable as the damn things are right now, they're a sight for literally sore eyes.

Yeah, even his eyes freakin' hurt.

It's ludacris he knows, but just for a split second, Kurt's a little disappointed in himself for not totally abandoning his often rigid pretenses, and actually giving into the idea of a random hook up. It's been a while since he'd gotten laid; too long really, and this scenario obviously has the makings for at least a presumably interesting random exploit of drunken release.

Didn't he deserve at least that?

But then his logical brain scolds him, belittling him much like Alan would do, and he lets the thought pass into the recesses of his mind; some oblivion of squashed, forgotten fantasy stamped under the heading: **_Do not tamper with_**.

It took him another few seconds of suffering barely controlled panic to realize where he likely was, eyes growing wide and suspicious as he takes in the empty, frat boy looking excuse for a place.

It had everything you'd expect some slovenly, man-child, whose obvious goal wasn't impression management, but stale replays of constant weekday partying, to have.

An unfolded Futon serving as a regular bed: Check.

Worn comforter with some awful masculine pattern, and underneath, a thin sheet that was seriously the consistency of tissue paper: Check.

Old beer cans of varying brands cluttering the chipped, second-hand nightstand: Check.

He stands up, immediately holding his arms out to maintain balance, his midnight blue undershirt riding up his lean belly. He steps forward, then again, and eventually finds his center as he makes his way into the living area.

He quietly pads across the carpet which is littered with stains, a feeling of disgust creeping over him as he contemplated what he was likely making skin contact with. Even if the contact was only with the bottom of his feet.

It wasn't totally muffled, but his head had been swimming just enough to tamper with the sound; curtailing it, and creating a distant jumble of words.

But now he was peaking around the corner of the short hallway, and he could put an image to the noise - which for some reason made the words make sense.

Puck was sitting on the couch, something else that was atypically worn and mute, with his laptop opened on the - God, it wasn't even a coffee table really, just a flattened scrap of wood atop several plastic crates - and his back to Kurt.

He saw blond hair framing a young face floating just over Puck's shoulder within the confines of the screen; hazel eyes that were now familiar to him but housed in a smaller, sweeter face, staring out at the man who'd been talking with a lilt Kurt had never really heard in his tone before.

He knows that he shouldn't be watching. He really shouldn't even be here. But he's captivated by the sight. So he stays frozen, his breathing more like a soft hum as he observes the exchange.

"You were late this morning."

"I know, I know. Sorry Baby Girl."

"Daaad," she whines, a perfect pout etched across the cute face.

"What? What'd I do?"

"You called me a baby. I'm eight years old. I'm so not a baby anymore."

Puck laughs openly at his daughter's retort. Kurt puts his fist up to his lips to stifle the smile; like the smile itself was in danger of giving away his position.

This whole thing, it was seriously straight out of the Twilight Zone. Puckerman was talking with the same baby Kurt had only seen in pictures years ago, and she was healthy, and kind of snarky, and growing up: a real authentic person, not just some figment of the Glee club drama pool, or some distant faded after thought. She was real, and Puck was her father who actually had a relationship with her.

And there Puck was, being nothing of what Kurt normally associated him as. He suddenly gets accosted by the image of Puck in a business suit, carrying a brief case and ducking into his daughter's dance recital with a huge grin planted on his face. And great. He's definitely being both creepy and ridiculous now.

"Guess you're right. But you know you'll always be my Baby Girl. When you're eight, eighteen, or eighty two."

"Ew, that's old," She giggles.

Kurt thinks she laughs just like her birth mother, Quinn. It's kind of surreal to hear. Like time warping back to his Glee club days where his life consisted of Vogue, hairspray, and fighting tooth and nail for a damn solo.

"If I'm that old, then you're gonna be real old. Like over a hundred," She jokes.

Kurt can feel the tension emanating from Puck's frame from across the room. He's stiff, pensive.

A few beats pass, and Kurt swallows, almost marching forward to - well - to do what, he didn't know. Interrupting was an option obviously, but that would be equally strange and borderline rude, and then his only choice would be admitting that he'd been eavesdropping in the first place.

"Uh - yeah. Yep. You'll um - you'll be an old fart. And I'll be the oldest fart. Pointing and laughing with no teeth, saying, 'there goes my Baby Girl.'"

Puck recovers. It's a noticable struggle that any adult observer could recognize, but the awkward moment quickly transcends into a forgotten faux pas.

She's full out laughing, squealing with peels of laughter that seem to eradicate a little of the tension in Puck.

"Daddy you're gross."

"And you love every bit of it. So how's that situation with that Thomas kid going?" Puck asks, his tone genuinely curious.

"He's still stupid. Yesterday he pushed me down the slide. And when I was jump roping with Lizzie, he came and tried to trip me."

Puck chuckles softly. "Kid must have it bad."

"Yeah he is bad. He's always being mean for no reason."

Kurt can hear the smile in Puck's voice when he responds.

"Trust me Monkey, there's always a reason. In this case, I'm pretty sure that he probably likes you and wants to be friends."

She pauses. "But what kind of friend does crap like that?"

"Hey! Watch your mouth kid."

"But you say it -"

"And I'm... I shouldn't have. But I'm a grown up. Plus you weren't supposed to hear that. But to answer your question, someone who doesn't know how to say how they feel, that's who."

"But that's easy. If he wants to be friends, all he has to do is ask."

"Yeah but some people just - don't know the right words. So sometimes, they - um - they do really dumb stuff. Sometimes even bad things to try to get the other person's attention."

Kurt automatically thinks of Puck's off kilter vacations, also known as juvenile hall. He recalls that those stints were definitely after Beth had been born and then given up for adoption. It's also when Quinn seemed to have moved on from him completely.

Her face scrunches up in confusion, way too similar to Puck's same interpretation of that expression.

"But that - just - that doesn't make any sense, though."

"No Monkey. It really doesn't. But I bet if you can help that Thomas kid find the right words. You know, show him how, he might be a little bit nicer. That way you can be the bigger person who uses kindness instead of being an assho - oh, I mean a meanie. Being a meanie."

She looks to be thinking it over, Puck quietly watching her.

"Just try, okay? Let me know how it goes."

"Okay, dad." She beams, eyes sparkling, apparently contented with that final instruction. "So how come you were late?"

"Oh. Right. I - uh - I was helping a friend."

"Was she a girl?" She poses teasingly.

"Nope. Just a friend."

"Not a girrrlfriend?" She giggles.

Puck shakes his head, running his hand through his dishevelled mohawk.

"You're ridiculous. No, a guy friend who's a dude. I was - um - helping him with moving."

Lord could the boy even give a feesible white lie? Moving... really?

"Like boxes and stuff? Is he moving into your apartment? Do you have a room mate? Can I meet him?"

"No. Not exactly."

"Who is it? Do I know him?"

"Whoa. Twenty questions much? Somebody's being awfully nosy this morning."

"Yep. So spill."

Puck leans forward with a huff.

"Do you remember the guy from my old Glee Club photo I sent you?"

"The goofy, tall one? Mr. Finn?"

"Nah. But good description. And please don't call him Mister. That's just - I don't know, weird. The one named Kurt."

"Oh, I remember. He's pretty. I like his eyes."

Kurt blushes, forgetting about his headache for the moment. He'd have to remember to send that kid a care package of some sort - ask Puck what kind of things she liked.

"Uh... yeah. Sure. Him."

"Uh huh."

"Well it was him that I was helping."

Beth shot him a contemplative look. An expression signifying some sort of devious consideration of Quinn-like proportion.

"And you weren't mean?" She challenges bruskly; a syrupy sing-song quality to her voice that only barely covered the accusation.

"Wait - what?"

Kurt's sentiments exactly.

"Why would I be mean, Monkey?" Puck rephrases.

She shoots an incredulous glare, as if he was absurdly nutty to not have figured it out for himself.

"Cause you told me that when you were in school, sometimes you used to be mean to him."

Kurt sucks in a breath.

Suddenly breathing felt too hard to do. Like it would be too loud and he'd miss something important; an ironic notion being that this was basically a conversational exchange with a grade schooler, and he was suddenly treating it like it could single handedly tip the universe. But he waits with bated breath; unable to move, unable to speak up and spare himself the pain of whatever callous, insensitive comeback Puck would no doubt spew out.

"Yeah. Your dad could be kind of a Tool when he was younger."

Okay. Kurt didn't quite expect that.

"Kinda like Thomas with me?" She suggests proudly.

"Maybe. Yeah, a little like that."

Once again, unexpected.

"Kurt was always nice, even when I wasn't," Puck continues. "I was just lucky that he's being the bigger person, like I want you to be with Thomas. And now... Yeah. I think we're figuring out how to be friends. Which is cool."

Well alright then. Score one for Daddy Puck.

Even referring to him as Daddy Puck felt almost out of body, but yeah, Noah Puckerman was in fact that: a dad. And apparently, a pretty decent one who actually gave solid advice, and really seemed to love his kid.

They continued on, catching up about a spelling test that Beth had aced and other random happenings that could easily be mistaken for mundane snippets of everyday life, but to them seemed like an exchange as careful and important as handling gold bars or a handful of diamonds. Every word leaking with laughter, soft smiles, and adoration.

And for a moment, Kurt felt a stab of jealousy. Puck had someone who he loved unconditionally, who loved him back. And yeah it wasn't a lover or partner, but it was still something with indescribable depth, and meaning. Similar in the sense that he had to earn it, and cultivate it with almost blind devotion, time, and care. Build it from the ground up.

Kurt was getting fake married to the guy. And sadly that would be the highlight of his love life: a fake marriage to a straight, ex-bully, with the saddest taste in home decor probably ever.

He realizes it then.

Maybe Puck isn't the one truly receiving the favor with this arrangement. Perhaps he was the naive one to have even bothered to believe that.

With that thought, Kurt quietly escapes back into the bedroom to fish out his shoes and socks. He'd at least make a point to leave a note behind before departing.

* * *

**Puck**

He really wishes that he hadn't promised Princess that he wouldn't go all cray cray and burst into his office after that last time.

But seriously? What the good fuck?

So here he was, standing outside of Hummel's office building squeezed into the fashion district of down town Los Angeles; irritable because he wore his leather jacket on probably the hottest day ever - something he laughed at Hummel for doing when they'd first met up with his damn lady-scarf - and chain smoking.

Man did he wanna kick his stupid office door off the hinges, drag him out, hog tie his ass, and rip into him. He was fuming enough that he was even blowing the smoke out angry, each waft of smoke pushed out like funnels of steam cloud. Kind of like the train from Back to Future Part Three. The weakest of the franchise in his opinion, but still a classic.

He'd quit smoking like eight months ago. He thinks anyway... Right. When Cedric got Assistant Manager. Sometime then. Cold turkey. One day, woke up, and just decided it was time. Plus those fuckers are primo expensivo. Not to mention his daughter's personal crusade within her school's anti-smoking campaign, some 'Say No to Drugs' awareness shit. He knows that has a lot to do with it too.

He remembers those days in elementary school where they forced you to tie those red ribbons on some obscure portion of the school fence, gave you lame stickers and rulers and shit, and tried to entertain you with middle aged randoms doing some sad little skit about the effects of smoking and drugs. Years later, the torture doesn't end apparently, as his kid was caught up in fighting the good fight during her second grade experience. It was like listening to the internet. If it had the voice of a seven year old girl.

For a whole two weeks, she spouted off nothing but statistics and facts about the grueling, gnarly ways smoking could ruin you. It was honestly impressive, albeit scary as hell.

She didn't know about her old man's habit.

And as far as he was concerned, after listening to her heartfelt ranting via Skype, and realizing that the idea of his Baby Girl talking so clearly and matter of fact about death was scaring him enough to recognize that he was kind of killing himself, she would never know, and he quit that very day.

The irony. Oh the sweet irony.

But right now, he was stressed. And bored. He was never one for Candy Crush type phone apps, his camera phone sucks balls, and he dropped his phone in the toilet probably like half a year ago and he's been too lazy to replace it. So his speakers sound like garbage, which cuts listening to music out completely. So he's smoking.

Plus he already had Cancer anyway. What more could it hurt? Another five minutes goes by before he hears it.

"Seriously Puck? You're smoking now?"

Puck takes an obnoxiously long drag before flicking the butt away. Kurt watches the motion with a look of disgust, his designer shoes that are probably Italian imported leather or whatever, are gleaming in the sun. Once again he's dressed to the gay nines, fitted dress pants and a checkered shirt, a flimsy looking silvery neck tie pinned with a decorative tie clip, and a dark hooded vest overlaying the tucked in shirt.

He thinks back on when Hummel used to sport those knee length woman sweaters. The kid grew up. And not that Puck would point it out to him, but he too, came an equally long way with his fashion choices.

"Oh no. Do you think I'll get Cancer? Oh, wait..." He spouts with biting sarcasm.

"That's not funny," Kurt deadpans.

"I've smoked on an off for years. Cloves in high school. Newports in college."

"You didn't go to college," Kurt counters.

"But everybody knows that you're supposed to smoke Newports when you're college aged, Hummel. It's like, _the_ rule. Or a rite of passage into manhood or something."

"Probably in the Bible I bet."

"Probably. I quit though actually. Not that it's any of Your Majesty's business."

"Yep. 'Cause that definitely looks like quitting. So why are you here? Mickey is literally feening like a Breaking Bad meth-head to call security after you called for the third time, and shared your plan to remain out here until I gave into coming downstairs. I had to actually pry his pointer finger off the dialpad."

"Um. Hello? You like - totally fucking ran off yesterday morning. And then when I tried calling, you ignored me."

"I've been busy."

Puck's eyes narrow, taking in the dude's defensive posture: the crossed arms, the subtle but still noticeable fidgeting, the way he looked to be chewing the inside of his cheek.

"You're lying."

"Am not," Kurt argued.

"I know, because you turned your phone off."

Kurt catches his eye then, the defiance radiating.

"I told you. I've been busy. I do have a high demand job, you know?"

"I know what it means Princess Hummel, when it goes straight to voicemail. And you're too uptight and super organized to not keep it charged at all times so don't try givin' me that 'my phone's been dead' crap. I also know because I've done that shit to girls way too many times to count. I'm like King Shit when it comes to the avoiding game. So I'll say again... You. Are. Lying. What gives, Kurt?"

Kurt has the decency to at least look a little guilty, his blue eyes stormy, and looking anywhere but at him; his tone a lot less clipped when he answers.

"I left a note. I didn't think it'd be a problem Puckerman."

Puck realizes how much like a chick he's sounding, which further fuels his frustration level.

"Yeah I got the note," He grumbles.

"So what's the problem that's led you to coming to my place of work - again - and demand that you see me like some stalkerish vigilante? I told you I would be working and I'd be in touch -"

"Well fuck me for being concerned about your well being. And also, I just - I wasn't sure, okay? I thought..."

Kurt unknots his arms. Puck can feel his eyes on him now. He continues, voice shaky and lame.

"I just - when you weren't answering, I - uh, I thought you were blowing me off. Bailing out." He takes a deep breath, and exhales, steadying himself. "I went to check on you and you were gone. Then I found your note saying something lame about 'keeping in touch when you could' which frankly felt like the kiss of death."

Kurt's eyes look watery, and he gasps aloud at the implication. Puck bruskly hastens on.

"No, no. I mean - sorry wrong words. It just felt - like a blow off, I guess. I'm just waiting for the other shoe to drop on when you freak and change your number, and threaten me with the cops. Or worse: Burt. This thing that we're doing. What you're doing for me... It's so much bigger than me. And I know I don't deserve it. All the things I've done in the past. I'm worried it's too much, and you're gonna just up and leave. It's fucking terrifying."

Puck blinks, clearing his throat. He liked himself better when he was pissed. He was feeling really gay at the moment. Fucking talking about his feelings must be an automatic response to speaking more often with a gay man. Which is basically like talking to broads.

But his anger hadn't really been anger. Not really. And for fucks sake... his mangina which was suddenly fully formed, is juicing with hormonal woman feelings.

Kurt touches his shoulder, a small smile crimping. His blue eyes softer than they'd been when he first appeared on the sidewalk in front of the office building.

"I told you that I was in. I'm a Hummel, and with us, our word is our bond. And you weren't exactly wrong. You were about the running off for good bit. But I should've had more class. We've known each other long enough. I owed you a face to face explanation. And at the very least a cup of coffee before taking off."

Puck shoved his hands in his pockets, the agitation deflating like a flacid balloon. He would've said dick, but that seems... pretty much like something Kurt wouldn't appreciate.

"Which I hate. But I would've liked the chance to make you tea. Or Kool-Aid. Seriously. That shit's amazing. I can go through eight packets a day."

"First of all, I don't know if its completely bizarre or hilarious that you of all people have tea. Second, you dump eight Kool-Aid packets in a pitcher at a time?"

"What? Tea is both soothing and refreshing. And hell no. I dump 'em in my mouth. The water just soaks up the flavor. Takes the kick out of it. But then it takes like a week to scrub the layers of coloring off my tongue so I stopped doing so many. Anyway, you were like - way wrecked, dude. I know your head probably felt like it got gang raped by hammers or something."

Kurt chuckles. The signature one that reeked old Kurt. Puck can't help but smile.

"Well apparently you were too busy helping me 'move'," and he punctuates the statement with air quotes, "to make any type of beverage anyway."

Puck knows he's giving a pretty good confused look right now. 'Moving'? What's he... Oh. Right.

"You heard me. With Beth," Puck figures.

Kurt nods, his cheeks slightly pink. Puck takes a beat.

"That why you ran?" He eventually asks. The words... what was that word Kurt's insane Smurf boss had said... right, 'delicate'. Kurt duck's his head at the comment, then nods again.

"I think. Yeah. I don't know. It just made it more real, I guess. Seeing her, and you talking to her - which I'm really sorry by the way for eavesdropping - but you're right. About this plan being bigger than you - than _us_, really."

Puck exhales, sighing into a careful lopsided grin. "It's cool. I get it. And I wasn't lying about the moving thing," Puck defends.

Kurt shoots him a scrutinizing glare.

"I did move some shit. It's called your ass, after you practically passed out in the bar. But it's not like I'm gonna tell my kid that. I'd love that conversation. 'Hey sweetheart, I had to drag my drunk ass friend home 'cause he got hilariously shit faced after like three drinks, and sleep on the couch which feels like cement, and that's why I was late'. By the way you don't look heavy but when you're dead weight, you can be a bitch to carry."

"You actually carried me?" Kurt utters quietly, a lackluster version of his previous bitchiness.

"Yeah. What do you think you were carried on the back of winged unicorn? Or slid into my apartment on the arch of a magical rainbow like a fucking playground slide, Princess? It wasn't a big deal. You were sloppy and half dead, so I just helped you kick off your shoes and shit and threw you on the bed. No biggie."

Kurt seems uncomfortable with this knowledge, his cheeks burning brighter.

"Um. Well, thanks."

"Yeah. Just - spare me the disappearing act next time around. The note was overkill. I felt like every woman whose ever been left by their dude the next morning with basically nothing except the memories. And we didn't even have sex. Just flashes of me being a human taxi cab."

Kurt rolls his eyes, making some impatient growling sound in his throat, his face colored entirely. But Puck could tell that it was from some good-natured place. Not his usual Ice Queen, pissy little, 'I'm the ruler of the world', place, and he laughs heartily at that.

"You're exhausting," Kurt says, his grin open.

"That's what she said."

"My point illustrated in perfect time. And now I actually do have to get back to work. Will you believe me if I say I'm gonna call you?"

"Will you answer if I call first?" Puck retorts, eyebrows raising.

Kurt blinks, the smile still lingering and kind of sheepish.

"Touché. After I get off - and don't you dare!"

Damn. Kid was learning his ways fast. Puck smirks, shrugging his shoulders innocently.

"You said it. Not me."

"Good day to you, Puckerman," Princess states dismissively.

Puck had already turned before calling over his shoulder, "Fiancé."

* * *

**A/N: I took in the wise advice from COLA COA, regarding more exposition so I hope this chap read more smoothly and left less room for questioning the surroundings and where the characters were. Still dialogue heavy but I think that's just my style. Especially with Puck. I love both his internal and external dialogue. Thanks to everyone who continues to review, favorite, etc. I do take in your feedback and love you all for taking the time. Not sure when the next one will be, but I'm not abandoning this fic so just know it's coming. Slowly but surely. Much love! **


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: So long. This chap is a lengthy son of a gun. Disclaimer: I mentioned so many pop culture references, movies, shows, maybe other stuff. I don't even remember but it felt like a lot. Anyway, don't own 'em. Thank you guys who continue to follow this fic and leave me your thoughtful reviews. You're all a bundle of awesome. Enjoy! **

* * *

**Blessed Benefits**

**Kurt**

"Where's your head been lately Hummel?"

Up his ass, he thinks candidly as he takes in the petite figure stalking toward his desk, with all of her menace surging around her like a pale halo. Or the orangey candle light from a Jack O' Lantern.

He clicks the mouse as discreetly as possible, closing the blog page bolstering reviews of the supposed, 'Best Horror Flicks of All Time.' He's been browsing it for the last forty-five minutes just trying to... he doesn't know... 'get it'. He was hovering on the cusp of understanding. He knows it. But too much time was making him imagine weird, irrational, crap. Like his Boss as a Jack O' Lantern.

That, or he just simply has to settle for the fact that he's not built for the Horror genre. Moulin Rouge is absolute perfection and can't be honestly compared to the likes of burnt child molesters attacking teenagers in their dreams.

"Up your ass?" Lorraine chants, matching his own inner dialogue to the T.

He seriously knew her too well. Or maybe she knew him too well. Or maybe it was a equal level of knowing that's of a suggestively gross proportion. Which was horrifying. And a bit sad to boot.

"Or more excitingly, picnicking up your boy toy's ass with your cute little tongue?"

"Lorraine! God - please. For all of us - please stop watching gay porn. And I'm here. Why?" He responds, as alert as he can summon his voice to be without seeming too squeaky and ass-kissy, or mocking tinged with a hint of defiant.

"I had Mickey call for you over five minutes ago." She supplies coolly.

Yep. He'd heard it. Loud and clear. He'd just ignored it. Eventually he would've made his way over. You know... eventually.

"I was just finishing something up. Sorry."

"Okay. Seriously. Puerto Rican must be hung like a Herculean Clydesdale -"

"Again, he's not Puerto Rican -"

"Because unless he's stabbing your brain with his prick while he's ramming into you, you're acting way too Aspergers for my liking."

Now he was ignoring the bloom of heat licking up his neck at a deplorable rate. She wasn't exactly wrong. He'd definitely been in his own head a lot lately. But the none too subtle innuendo just twists his stomach lining. Vulgarity and his Boss were fated to always go together it seemed. And damn was she ever having a field day with his 'being engaged and getting married to Puck' thing. It's like some sort of early Christmas present for women below average height.

"Here." Lorraine grouses, apparently taking pity on him and tossing the manilla envelope with a delicate flick of her wrist onto his desk. Kurt carefully picks it up, eyes darting from the package back up to her. He hesitates.

"I wanted you to see them before we send them for final print." She explains scrupulously.

His eyes narrow, the semi-generous pile of photo paper caressing his fingertips as he gingerly traces the innards of the envelope.

"John nearly jizzed in his ridiculous looking parachute pants just talking about the, and I quote", and here she used air quotes to make her point, "'exquisitely tittalating experience' he had shooting them. Guess your mail order beau's got something."

Kurt swiftly removed the photographs from the envelope. His eyes widened.

Puckerman. In Kurt's clothes.

It was the photos from the infamous photoshoot heard round the agency. He quietly thumbed through each shot.

And hot damn... He actually looked good. Like - really good. Like delectable good. Or dare he think it, stunning, even. Each one was successively stealing his ability to conjure a thought outside of 'damn,' and 'wow' and 'holy hell.'

Kurt had to fight through the stitch that had woven itself closed inside his chest when he came across the last few shots; the ones where Puck had painted the floor with glass shards that shimmered elegantly like colorless rubies, or some weird art deco mosaic fit for some high end art gala.

Puck's face was a contorted panel of emblazened disregard, and a genuine depth of emotion that read clearly across the page; electricity that popped like a tangible energy. His molten eyes were illuminated like some dark Prince, eyeshadow and liner creating a mask that seemed akin to some, beautiful, twisted fantasy. The tightness in the muscle, ripping, and raw, and like a separate canvass unto itself; the kinetic quality burning his irises as he drank in the olive skin stretched from neck to waist.

This was edgy. This was high fashion. This was... This was _Puck_.

Oh God, that he didn't believe in. It was Puckerman. And he was staring. Hard. And he knew it.

"If you druel or shed any other bodily fluids on those shots, I will personally castrate you. I'll be needing those back for production."

For a second, he'd completely forgotten about her presence. He blinked rapidly, trying to collect himself without being stupidly obvious. She held out her finely manicured hand to reclaim the package, her smirk eating away at his dignity, and simultaneously spiking his indignation. She then exhaled with a sickeningly understanding crook of her lips, pulling her hand away.

"Never mind. Just remember to set it on my desk within the hour. Congrats Hummel! You're on your way to solidifying yourself as a 'somebody' in this business."

She turned sharply, her heels as always sounding off with every step.

"Oh and get your boy toy in here soon. Early next week works. I have some other things lined up for him." She calls over her shoulder before snapping the door closed.

He shivered at the realization that he had been 'open mouth, almost about to druel' staring, at none other than Noah - Fucking - Puckerman.

The irony. It literally felt like a block of iron sitting inside his gut. Was he growling? Yep. He was actually growling like an irritable dog. Seriously. Kill him now.

* * *

**Puck**

"Dude... um, what the hell are you doing?"

"Shh."

Puck was focused. Not even Cedric would ruin this for him.

"Okay. I get that you're on lunch break. But that was like two hours ago."

Nope. Not even the fact that he was technically at work, hiding away like a little garden gnome in the break room; eyes glued onto the flat screen bolted into the wall.

"It's Tuesday. You know we're slow on T-Tuesdays."

_Jesus Puckerman! Your voice sounds like its chalk full of bitchassness. Control that shit! _He scolds himself. Or rather his Santana-sounding inner voice, or conscience or whatever does.

Puck continues to look forward, his feet slung up on the tattered break room ottoman, mouth slowly grinding the chocolate covered pretzels into mush. He's slumped low enough on the leather couch to bascially be lying down, or getting eaten by the damn thing. He hopes that Ced would just take the hint and fuck off.

"Wait. What are you watching?"

"Just a movie," He snaps back.

"No. That's not just any movie." Ced replied while easing forward. "Transformers is any movie. The Grudge - any movie. The Batman franchise from one to two, and Chris Nolan's cinematic brilliance swallowed into a trilogy - any other movies, albeit amazing ones." Ced takes a seat next to him, eyes flickering over the screen with a strange look. "This is like the ultimate chick flick of all time. This is... Oh my God are you crying right now?"

"No!" Puck barks. "I just - my eyes are - they're burning from - er - stuff. I got something in 'em, okay?"

"Yeah. Like tears. The water that forms when we cry."

"They leak and shit when they get irritated. It's science. Check - I don't know, fucking Bill Nye's fun facts, or some other science shit."

"Or they just leak from the emotional turmoil that we suffer vicariously through one Debra Winger and her fight with the Big C."

Puck swallows. Ced who's chuckling seems to miss it.

"Why do you know that?" Puck utters quietly, urging every bit of normal into his voice that he can muster.

"The ghosts of girlfriends past man. It's weird when you're not forcibly exposed to it at some point. Terms of Endearment is serious relationship law. Hey can you get up? I wanted to see if you got period blood on the couch. It's leather so it'll probably just roll off to the side. Make for easy clean up."

Puck was thankful for already being on the defensive. He was able to somehow let the initial remark slip past.

"Whatever fucker. Fuck me for having a soul and actually feeling. Only a freakin' cyborg would manage to sit here and not feel anything. No - take that back. RoboCop himself would fucking squeeze out a drop over this shit. Anyway, Kurt told me about it so I - I wanted to see what he was mooning over."

Puck recalls one of their more recent phone conversations. As random and brief as they are, they always leave Puck, well, interested. The kid had always been entertaining. And turns out, he'd stayed true to form in his adult years.

It had started with what brand of canned chicken noodle soup was passable.

Puck had been at the grocery store for the first time in months, and he figured Princess, in all of his glorious gay sensibility would know how to navigate shit like that, so he called him up. Your Grace had actually answered, a much less rare thing as of late he'd noticed.

And before he knew it, they were jumping from topic to topic until they were arguing about movies. Kurt of course griping about musicals and the power of song, while Puck discussed the amazingness of his extended Horror collection. Eventually it led to Kurt talking about some movie called 'Tears of Endurement'; Puck had to be corrected six times before the conversation ended. The kid had went on and on about it being some revelation; one of the best movies he'd ever seen hands down.

So Puck had gotten curious. Fuck, he's human. Now here he was, two days later, watching the fucking thing.

Hummel had said it was something that he remembered watching a lot around the time his mom had gotten sick. That he used to pretend that he was the daughter with Cancer, so that he could somehow take his mom's place. He didn't have to explain further. Puck thinks he gets it.

"Ah, so Kurt said, huh? When am I ever gonna meet this mystery, high school pal? It's like he's an enigmatic tall tale, or an imaginary friend. I'm starting to think you made him up."

"Nah. You can't make Hummel up. Trust me on that one."

Puck's stupid eyes are stinging. It was after ten o'clock in movie world. Emma, the Cancer ridden daughter was supposed to be getting her pain shot. What gives?

"Puckerman. I gotta tell ya. You've been gettin' weird dude. I can't make heads or tails. The others haven't picked up on it yet. But if they start catching you in here watching chick flicks, they'll know something's up. Hell you've even been lazier than usual if that's at all possible."

"Why?"

"Why? 'Cause you don't normally do shit like this."

"Why? Why won't they just give her the fucking shot, man? She obviously needs it."

"What are you...? Oh."

They both lock onto the screen, Cedric a bit uneasily as he settles into observing the scene. Puck knows damn well that the sniffling isn't imaginary, and that its so coming from him. But he just gives into it anyway. He also knows that he may have crossed some invisible bro barrier that he can't cross back over after this.

"JUST GIVE HER THE FUCKING SHOT!" He explodes right along with Aurora, the mother screaming at the nurses to give her daughter a little relief with that stupid God damn pain shot. That too much to fucking ask?

He's sitting forward with the pretzel bag crushed in his grip. Ced is standing up now, controller in hand. The screen suddenly goes black.

"Hey! I was watching that man."

"Yeah. I saw. Dude, you're getting violent over a fictional fucking story with fictional people. It's fucking scary. Actors, man. That's their job. To make you buy in. And when they're amazing at their job, it makes it more believable and real and shit. But it's not, okay? It's fiction. So relax man. Bring it down a hair."

Puck is breathing heavily, slowly trying to ease down. He felt strange. Like a huge moment was weighing down on him, waiting for him to take advantage.

Ah. That was it.

"I know man. Sorry - I just..."

Cedric was his boy. He should know right? The reason why that movie felt more real than anything else in the moment.

"I - um. It was good. It was just real good," Puck mumbles.

Cedric puts the remote back onto the small kitchenette table littered with a variety of empty snack food bags, a vague sort of 'I get it' smirk on his face.

"I was forced to watch that movie nearly every time my Granny came over to visit. I cried all the tears I could possibly shed over it. If my heart was like the bat cave, that's how deep that shit is buried. Like ground level bat cave type shit. Secret's safe with me, Puckster. Finish your pretzels. Get back to work."

As Cedric leaves, Puck breathes out, the exhale thick with half relief and half... a whole bunch of other shit. He dumps the rest of the now powder pretzel content into his mouth, and shoots the empty bag toward the trash can across the room. He bricks it.

Good thing it_ had_ been Cedric who'd walked in on him. Ced was right. He never would hear the end of it with the others. They'd make a collective sport out of giving him shit.

Besides, he kind of figured out how the movie was probably gonna end anyway. And that shit was depressing.

* * *

**Kurt**

Kurt didn't know what had possessed him to make this trip. Surely he could've just e-mailed them.

But something tells him that he doesn't want to miss the look on Puck's face when he sees them for himself. The word 'priceless' keeps niggling at the back of his brain. So he'd gotten extra prints made, and left with a mission of intent to deliver them directly to him.

He notices that several of the nearby store fronts are already darkened. The parking lot was basically empty with the exception of a few cars... and that truck: Puck's beat up pick up truck that has somehow managed to find, and be soiled by dirt roads even in the heart of the city.

Kurt subconciously grins. Good. Seems he hadn't missed him. He walks briskly with the envelope tucked under his arm. Just as he reaches the entrance, a spiky headed blond pushes open the door.

"Oh. My bad, dude. Didn't see you. We're actually closed up. Well, there's like literally two minutes to close. I was just getting ready to lock up."

Kurt's grin falters.

"Oh. Right. I - um - I was actually looking for somebody."

"Huh. Do tell," the spike headed young man joked, his hand already enclosed over the door handle, the other encircling his pocket where the sound of keys clacking and tinkling melted into the night air.

"Noah. I mean, Puck. Is he still in?"

This seems to startle blondie. He releases the handle immediately, looking Kurt up and down with an intrigued fascination.

"Wait. Like - as in Noah Puckerman? Overgrown mohawk. Refers to himself in the third person a lot. Is like - always talking about the glory of being Jewish but like - is actually the worst Jew ever?"

"One in the same."

"Oh. Oh, that's good. That's just - man, that's good."

"Sorry?"

"Could you just - hold still for just a sec?"

Before he knew what was happening, a flash goes off, and Spike is holding up his camera phone to check out the result, before stuffing the cellphone back into his pocket.

"Perfect. Thanks."

"Wait - What the hell was that?"

"History. Puck's probably in the back left. Guitar section."

"I don't think I'm very comfortable with you having -"

"You goin' in or not? I still gotta close up so..."

Kurt huffs, ticking his neck to the side, and sucking his bottom lip between his teeth to avoid spewing the floodgate of insults boiling over the surface of his tongue. The same tongue that Lorraine had just accused of being buried in Puck's ass only hours before.

Fuck his pale skin.

"Whatever. Thanks." He grunts, trooping inside the glass door; soundly ignoring the bout of laughter accompanying the noise of metal against metal, and ending with a definitive click that likely meant the store was officially locked up.

It was quiet. There didn't seem to be any other employees there. He halted for just a moment, taking in the store in its entirety.

Puck worked here. Day in and out. This is where he made his living.

It was easy to look down on it Kurt supposed. It was typical, blue collar, retail-esque, what you thought you'd be doing as a part time job while going to college type of occupation; not necessarily something that one would aspire to make a living out of.

But weirdly enough, without all of the hustle and bustle of the likely normal patronage, Kurt could really see something; some unspoken beauty that most people could easily miss. The way the drum kits stood proudly, and the cymbals hanging against the walls like old photographs gleaming in an orderly fashion. The hoards of sheet music and books, lining shelf after shelf like whispered promises of a lost language. The area of keyboards ranging from pretty standard to intricate recording beasts of technology that would have his head spinning if he even tried to figure it out.

He thinks of Glee club. And somewhere deep down, he gets why Puck has chosen this for himself; the sentiment carefully buried beneath it all.

He quietly covers the floor with long strides, making his way toward the back left as instructed. Sure enough, he glimpses a figure hunched over a guitar, familiar mohawked head bowed as he plucked across the guitar strings. He was sitting on a small stool in the middle of the room; the four walls housing various guitars like an inanimate audience.

"This seems vaguely familiar," Kurt greets as way of announcing himself. Puck doesn't flinch, just stays in position, picking at the strings absent mindedly. Kurt steps forward, a slight frown on his face as he continues. "I can see the appeal - this shop. It kind of reminds me of being back in the choir room."

"What are you doing here Hummel? We're closed."

Okay. So... that was a little harsh.

"Not exactly being very welcoming today are we? I thought you'd like the idea of me just busting in your place of work completely unannounced."

Puck looks up at him then, pulling the guitar strap from around his shoulder.

"I get it, Hummel. Lose the sarcasm."

Kurt steps forward, clutching the envelope to his chest, brandishing it like a shield against the unexpected demeanor of his fellow McKinley alumni. His Glee clubber cohort. His current betrothed.

"Okay. Am I missing something? What's with you?"

"Is that a trick question?" Puck spat, gradually replacing the guitar back onto the wall. Kurt notices the slow pace, the slight wince flashing across his face as he stretched to settle the acoustic instrument back onto the pegs.

"Are you - what's wrong? And don't lie to me." Kurt demands. Puck is avoiding him again, looking anywhere but at him.

"Puck!"

"She dies in the end, right? Emma."

Of all the things Puck could've said, that was a statement Kurt wouldn't have bet on.

"Emma? What are you - wait. Do you mean from -"

"Yeah, Hummel. That fucking movie you told me about. Terms of stupid, fucking, Endearment. She croaks in the end. They all get to sit around and watch her get sicker until she finally bites it. Right?"

Kurt sighs, taking a seat on the empty stool. "Do you really wanna know?" He asks timidly.

Puck grows quiet. His eyes tracing over the carpet.

"I... No. It's stupid. _I'm_ stupid."

"Stop it. You're not stupid. And I didn't think you'd watch it. I was just telling you - I don't know. I was just talking. Maybe it was insensitive to talk about it at all."

Puck guffaws, rolling his eyes at Kurt's words. His arms are crossed over his chest, and his fingers were digging into the sleeves of his mauve, hooded sweatshirt with enough vigor to wrinkle the material.

"It's just - I couldn't tell him. He's like one of my best friends. And I can't tell him."

"Who? What are you talking about? Please Puck. It's okay. Just - just talk to me."

Puck swallows, the gulping sound audible in the quiet atmosphere. Kurt has to blink back the tears he feels pricking his own eyes at the sight of Puck's defeated air. His normally sure voice, quavering, and thick with emotion.

"I'm hurting, Kurt. A lot lately. I mean, like - physically. I mean, I try to hide it. But it's becoming too much some days. Even with me overdosing on Ibuprofen."

Kurt examines the taller frame that looks oddly shrunken. It's as if he actually looks guilty; as if admitting this aloud was a fate worse than saying die on the football field. Giving in, and surrendering. Something Noah Puckerman was never one to do.

"I'm no whiner. Let's make that clear. But this? I can't lift things half the time because it feels like my back is splitting in half. Or my body is getting like - freakin' Bishoped."

"Bishoped?"

"You know? Torn apart. Like Bishop. The cyborg who gets ripped in half by the Queen alien?"

Kurt shakes his head, eyes wide.

"Oh c'mon. Seriously Hummel? _Aliens_. The movie Aliens. The sequel to Alien. Probably the most well known Horror-Sci-Fi movie in cinema history. Sigourney Weaver? She plays Lieutenant Ripley. One of the most badass, ass-kicking female characters of all time. No bells ringing? Nothing at all?"

Kurt shrugs his shoulders, his mouth twisted in a thin line.

"Never had the pleasure."

"For fucks sake," Puck sighs, running his hand over his face. He really did seem out of it. Kurt cursed himself for not being more observant, in tune. He couldn't shake the feeling that he'd let Puck down. Puck plants himself on the floor, sitting criss-cross, applesauce like a lost, feeble, kindergartner.

"I have to find excuses to avoid having to do maintenance or inventory. It's Cedric. That's who I can't tell, 'cause he'd have no choice but to cut my hours. And we both know I'm not exactly diving into a vault sized swimming pool of gold coins like Scrooge McDuck as it is. You got eyes. You saw my place."

Kurt feels a wave of sympathy crash over him. He wills it away. Pushes it underneath the mask. He knows Puck would probably hate him for the look.

"I'm tired all the time. I get these monstrous headaches that feel like a corkscrew's gouging through my skull. And these random bouts of wanting to puke my guts out. I hate it. 'Cause I feel so pathetic and weak. But I can't tell him that. Any of it."

Puck leans against the wall, his eyes drifting closed as if his confession had sucked the remaining life force out of him entirely. Kurt really sees it then. Puck was tired looking; drained and depleted, and not like himself. Not like he was in the pictures from merely a week prior.

"God - I'm not trying to get pity points or whatever. That shit's never been my angle. I feel like a complete pussy for even telling you this. I just - I don't know what to do anymore."

Kurt vacates the stool and seats himself next to Puck, mirroring his position.

"I need you to hear me. So shut off all your other patriarchal, Neanderthal, Puckerman bullshit and listen to me. Okay?"

Puck's eyelids raise slowly as if in answer, hazel boring into his own bluish-green orbs like a brewing challenge of wills.

"Good. First of all. Scrooge McDuck... I mean, c'mon. Nobody can dive headfirst into coins and _not_ break their neck. That's a fact. I think they did an experiment about it on Mythbusters or something. Second, we know why you're in pain. It doesn't make you weak. You're human. You have Cancer and it's real. And the more you keep playing it off and acting like we can keep postponing what we need to do to fight it, the worse our chances. And lastly, I'm marrying you. Tomorrow. And that's the end of it."

"W-what?"

"Puck. We have to do this. No more excuses. I know that you've been trying to give me more time. But I also think part of it was you being in denial. That you knew, that once we got married, this would all be real. There'd be no going back. No room for holding onto some distant belief that it's just misinformation, or that you were maybe misdiagnosed."

Puck ducks his head, but remains silent, his knees now tucked into his chest. Kurt knows that what he's saying is ringing true for Puck; but it doesn't need to be said. At least not with words.

Kurt reaches for his hand, and surprisingly, Puck lets him take it.

"I get that. But we can't put if off. We _won't_ put it off anymore. I told you the day that we decided it, we were doing this. I'm ready."

Puck trails his eyes over Kurt, waiting. Then that half smirk begins to emerge, and Kurt feels his heart lighten just a bit.

"Okay." Puck breathes after another full minute.

"Okay?"

"Yeah. Okay," the mohawked man reassures, his voice more steady. "It's your world Princess. I'm just a squirrel - trying to climb a tree, or - something."

Kurt chuckles, both his hands sandwiching Puck's single hand in an encouraging grip, the manilla envelope lying precariously on the ground, and sealed near his feet.

"Hey Puckaroon! Let's beat it already - and whoa! Sorry, um - didn't mean to interrupt - uh - whatever's happening right now. I'll be at the front desk waiting Puck."

The guy was slightly pudgy. Kind of in that endearing Jack Osbourne type of way. He had dark brunette strands flipped back in a mini-pompadour, thick sideburns or 'chops' if you will, covering a good portion of his full cheeks, and thick plug earrings mauling his earlobes. Kurt wasn't sure what to say in response. Not when it was clear that whoever this was had probably gotten the wrong idea about their exchange. It did sort of look a little, well... intimate.

"Yo! Cedric. Um - it's cool man. This is - well, this is Kurt."

Ah. So this was Cedric.

Puck stood gingerly, holding his hand out to help Kurt to his feet. Puck's smile was thwarted by the shot of pain at the gesture, causing him to grimace through it; Kurt immediately apologizing, and Puck just shaking his head.

"It's fine. I'm cool."

Cedric seemed to still be getting his bearings. "So you're _thee_, Kurt Hummel, eh?" Cedric interrupts with a curious tone. "I started to think you were some figment of this one's imagination."

Kurt pinches himself for show. "Nope. Real."

Cedric releases a nervous bark of laughter. "Totally. I definitely see that. Hence the pinching - er - thing, you did. Funny."

All three fall silent, the awkwardness swallowing them all like a ravenous party scarfing down a four star entrée. Kurt wants to say something to dispel the tension. But he isn't sure what Puck had in fact told Cedric about them, or their faux relationship. He didn't want to cross any unnecessary boundaries, or spill the figurative beans.

"Don't ask questions. Just trust me on this. Look, Ced. I'm with Kurt. Like in love with him, type shit. And we're getting married. Tomorrow."

Guess that answers that.

Cedric blinks at them, putting his finger up as if he's about to make a point, then putting it down again. Kurt's reminded absurdly of Artie and one of his come to Jesus moments of musical praise.

"I... well, I guess that kind of explains the - um - weird shit we discussed previously." Cedric rambles in a low tone. Both of them stare unabashedly, seconds ticking away.

Puck nods his head. "Yeah. Yeah it does."

Puck was eying Cedric almost defiantly; daring him to make a negative comment. Cedric rubbed his fingertips through one of his sideburns, looking more thoughtful than judgmental.

"Where at?"

"Um -" Puck starts.

"The courthouse." Kurt intervenes. "Puck and I, we just want something simple."

"Right. Makes sense," Cedric concurs. Another long pause ensues. "You know, it's all kind of making sense actually. You and Wyatt did always act kind of homo. Um - erotic. Yeah. Homoerotic."

"That's exactly what Gladys said," Kurt can't help but add, ambling to ignore Cedric's slip up. "Seriously. Who is this Wyatt guy?"

"Blonde. Spikey, Dragon Ball Z, Super Saiyan hair. Always smiles like he's about to cause mischief."

"Ah. Met him on his way out. Charming."

"Dude, Gladys knows about this?" Cedric questions incredulously before Puck can finish what he started to add in regards to the news of Kurt's brief encounter with Spike - or Wyatt, or whatever.

Puck's grin turns sheepish, a half hearted lean of the mouth. "I sort of told her the other night. She's the only one though. Nobody else knows. Except you now."

"Her and the whole bar," Kurt whispers to himself.

Cedric pauses, the next words leaving his mouth in a stern fashion. "You could've told me, man. I wouldn't have given you shit. Maybe some mild ribbing, but nothing over the top. I love your guts. Well, your really - apparently gay guts."

Kurt smiles over at Cedric. Puck chuckles softly.

"I thought you said rimming at first," Puck remarks in explanation, his lips wobbling with the efforts to hold back his laughter.

"I don't love you that much, Pucky." Cedric quips.

And Kurt will forever be left to ponder the questionable behavior of boys. Either way, he was happy that someone who seemed to be an important figure in Puck's life, hadn't threatened them bodily harm, or instantly banished their friendship. Surprisingly, he was taking it more than well.

"By the way, I might be able to get you guys a better spot for the ceremony. It probably won't be tomorrow. But give me a few days, like this weekend, and I can get you something."

Kurt's eyebrow raises of its own accord. "Really? I mean, just getting something at the courthouse isn't going to be easy since it's so last minute. I can't imagine how you'd snag another venue."

"I know a guy who knows a guy. No worries." Cedric exclaims nonchalantly. Kurt can definitely see why he and Puck clicked. Both seemed pretty well settled in their abilities. Basically cocky. Others might label it as self-assured. Tomato, Tomahto, Kurt thinks.

"Sweetheart?" Kurt queries with a sly grin. "Does that work, or are you in too much of a hurry to make me yours to wait that long?"

Puck's shoots him an answering grin. They both seemed to be more amused by this game than either was willing to admit. "I don't know babe. I want to make you mine like yesterday. But I want you to have the best too. Waiting for the weekend might not be so bad. You can plan shit. Maybe get a cake or something."

"Weird. No disrespect," Cedric states blankly. "Just, I need more time to process that Kurt, well, has a wiener. I'm used to Puck, um - excuse the crassness, but kind of being knee deep in poon. I gotta grab my coat. I'll meet you guys at the back door."

Kurt and Puck exchange a look, Puck snorting against his fist, while Kurt bites his lip to stifle the laughter and keep it in check. Cedric blushes.

"Fuck. Not that type of - Wow. Walking away now." Cedric disappears while shaking his head.

Kurt stoops down to pick up the envelope, the tight smile still present. He'll show it to Puck later. Give him the news once they've sorted things out.

"What's that?"

Never mind then. Fate is indeed being an impatient wench.

"Something that will make you instant man-candy for any gay man who reads the magazine you'll be getting published in. Take a look."

Puck does that scrunched up face that signifies his confusion. He unlatches the metal prongs keeping the envelope shut, and pulls out the photographs.

"Wow. You're right. I'd totally go gay for me."

Kurt watches Puck while he looks down at himself in fantasy form. It was kind of adorable. Like watching a kid getting their first bicycle.

"They want you for other projects Puck. Lorraine has specially requested for you to do some more photoshoots."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Really."

"And they pay?"

"Pretty well, I'm sure. Just depends on the hours and what they have you do."

Puck exhales, the sense of accomplishment getting tainted by a sudden burst of skepticism.

"I don't do hand outs Hummel. Not like that. Pity makes me want to break things."

_And here we go_, Kurt's inner voice drones.

"Whoa, whoa. Hold onto your Star Wars panties. Do you think this was me? That I did this?"

"Well didn't you? And how the hell do you know I have Star Wars chones?"

Kurt groans. Irritated with the constant eruptions of mistrust.

"Becky Jackson. The Cheerio from high school? Apparently there was a game of strip poker, which given that she has down syndrome, seems morally corrupt and low even for you."

"It was _her_ freakin' idea. We didn't do anything, and we went to prom right after. _Together_. We were both bummed out and dateless so, whatever."

Kurt gruffly sighs, unknotting his arms from across his chest and letting them fall to the sides.

"I didn't do you any favors. And if you just believed in yourself, you would know that Lorraine wants you because of what _you_ did. Because it was you who did it. Not me, or anyone else. You. And if you ask me, this chance came at an opportune time. I know you don't want to hear it, but enough of these gigs can keep you financially stable. Enough to at least keep up a savings, and even pay me back since made up 'man law' or 'guy code', or whatever keeps you bitching about needing to pay me back. Don't let your ego, or stupid bravado keep you from doing something really great, Puck. You owe it to yourself."

Puck is looking at the pictures in his hand again. Contemplating silently.

Eventually he meets Kurt's eye, slipping the photographs back inside the envelope.

"Thanks, Kurt. Yeah. I guess I'm up for it. But only if John calls me a rabid animal again. Not to mention a zombie, and a primate. Those were just pure magic. Touching, really."

Kurt laughs. "Just don't get too close. I don't think he wants to touch you with his words."

"Ew."

"Ew, indeed."

* * *

**A/N: I definitely worked hard to try to get this one done much sooner than the last chap. Spent most of day getting it written and posted so hopefully you guys enjoy it. I needs to know if you guys like where this is going so please drop a review. Thanks kindly! Also, if you haven't already guessed it. Finally, Marriage time is a'coming. Whoop, whoop! Also I just wanted to give a shout out to SciFiGeek14 for the rad, amazing, fanart for this fic. Check it out on her Tumblr page if you're interested. Hopefully the link doesn't look too spliced. Add the dot com after tumblr and it should work. chris my disney prince . tumblr post/65655231281/new-fanart-for-clef-longfellows-n ew-fic**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Once again, disclaimer for the mention and use of certain songs, movies, etc. And the time has now arrived... duh, duh, duh... for the wedding. I was typing like a mad person trying to get this chap finished. I felt really inspired by the last bout of reviews and was just in the mood I suppose. Anyway, please enjoy! **

* * *

**Blessed Benefits**

**Puck**

His heart was hammering. Like a gagillion beats a minute or something. He made sure to wait a beat, then step. Then wait a beat, then step. Just like they'd rehearsed.

He looked out at the audience as he passed. The faces seemed blurry and weird. Probably his nerves. But as he came closer, he could make out at least some of the faces.

Mr. Schue, all toothy grin and butt chin, sitting next to Mrs. P - or Schuester now. Yeah he'd have to remember that. Which he guesses makes her an official Cougar now that she's been tagged, um - claimed. Hm. Funny. Her hair is cut short, and looks kind of dark and curled. Weirdly Sigourney Weaver like.

Finn. That idiot as tall as ever, shooting him a thumbs up. He gives one back while rolling his eyes. Rachel of course is sitting next to him wearing some obnoxious hat with little musical notes dangling along the brim. Seriously. What the fuck is that about? Is there not a moment when the whole aspiring Broadway deal wouldn't be shoved down peoples throats?

He notices some other Glee Clubbers, Mercedes, and whoa, pretty smoking in a red sequined number that reminded him of Jessica Rabbit, hugging her thickness nicely. Mike, the Asian making kissy faces at him, and eyes hidden behind some Star Trek looking Geordi glasses. Was he wearing a Star Trek uniform shirt? Okay, random. Kind of cool. But random.

Closer up he catches the eye of Santana, wiggling her Chola looking eyebrows - and, when did that happen? She has a side pony tail, and her mouth is outlined in heavy lip liner stuff that makes her look like she just ate an ice cream sandwich. And she's macking out with Brittany, who has on a t-shirt with her pet cat Lord Tubbington's mug-shot on it.

Becky Jackson is shooting her beady glare at him, wearing her homemade anti-prom queen crown carved from a beer box. And is that - Yep. Blaine Garbler, crying his gay face off, wearing the most clownish bowtie probably ever created, and using Becky's Golden Girl's dress with huge shoulder pads as a napkin.

Huh. Wow. You'd think these fuckers would at least try to look more presentable for his... Is that Artie?

Oh, no. He doesn't... He's not actually seeing that.

Artie was dressed up in Luke Skywalker gear, holding a light saber from his seat in his wheel chair at the top of the stage. It seemed that, yeah, I guess he was presiding, or proceeding over this.

It was then that Puck noticed who he was marrying.

Wow, that ass - the white material was clinging to it. He almost bit his lip at the sight. Overall the whole ensemble, really, it was like - what was that word?... Right: elegant.

He couldn't see the face yet, but he felt a jolt of excitement. The person hiding behind that ridiculously long veil was gonna get pounded tonight.

It dawns on him that it was little weird that he hadn't been the one waiting to greet his partner, but as he reaches the steps, and the music stops, he forgets to care.

"Sup Congregation! I've been a practicing Minister ordained by the Galactic Empire, yo! So we're gathered here to celebrate two people who lurrrve each other. A lot. And they wanna bone. Probably a lot."

Puck looks around the room wide eyed, and is shocked to see a lot of people nodding in agreement, smiling up at them like that wasn't the weirdest, most inappropriate shit to say pretty much ever.

"Anyway, let's just skip all this crap. I dub thee, husband and... ah, screw it! Just make out so we can watch."

Puck's eyes are darting around the room. Santana comes up for air long enough to yell out, "whoop, whoop!" then re-suctions her face to Brittany's. He'd have to have a talk with her later about PDL, or PD - whatever it's called.

"Okay then. Here we go." He pushes the veil up and out of the way.

"Shit," He gasps out.

"You expecting somebody else sweetheart?"

Puck's mouth doesn't seem to be moving, his jaw working but no sound comes out.

"Um - I - you have on a dress - I just - I thought..."

"You don't think I look good?"

Speechless. Yep. No words. Because truthfully, he looked fucking gorgeous. I mean, sure he was a boy in a dress, but Puck had eyes. He was comfortable enough in his manhood to admit to dude beauty. And Puck nearly loses his balance when he thinks of the way he'd just ogled Hummel's ass a few minutes before.

Oh God. He'd thought about pounding it. And oh God... his dick was like - attracted to it.

"Hurry and get your mack on! I got a roller derby to play in later. If I'm late, Chewbaca's gonna get first pick again." Artie warns, breaking the tension.

"Um - you look. Well... just, damn. Really, I mean - damn."

"I'll take that as a compliment." Kurt says coyly, shooting him a flirty smile. And is he batting his freakin' eyelashes at him?

Puck finds himself saying, "guess we shouldn't keep 'em waiting, then."

"Fucking kiss him already! My tits are starting to sag!"

He smiles at Santana's colorful, very Santana-like remark, and gently tilts Kurt's face toward his...

"Ah!"

He's on the floor, tangled in his bed sheet. He blinks, running his hand slowly over his face, trying to push away his subconscious with the reality of his own touch.

What that hell was that?

For sure, he's had wacked dreams before. But that was something from an entirely different universe of different.

It dawns on him then.

"Huh. Right. I'm marrying Kurt Hummel today."

He smirks at the absurdity of that statement, then forces himself to sit up, and climb to his feet.

He makes it to the bathroom, staring at his reflection in the mirror with slight disgust. He really should've turned down the offer by Ced for an impromptu two-man bachelor party last night. But he was a sucker for free anything. Especially beer. But his late night is pretty much showing on his face now though. And yep, he definitely needs to shave, he thinks critically while running his hand over his face again; the pads of his fingertips getting scratched by the three day old scruff. He sighs.

"I'm marrying Kurt Hummel today."

He sets to brushing his teeth.

"I'm marrying Kurt Hummel today."

Slicks his mohawk down, making sure to use a moderate amount of hair goop to keep it in place.

"I'm marrying Kurt Hummel today."

By the time he's tying his shoe laces, and marveling at having been able to get his neck tie on by himself, and having repeated the damn sentence to himself for at the least the twentieth time, the statement feels a lot less crazy, and oddly... He's okay with that.

"I'm marrying Kurt Hummel today," he breathes, a grin slowly spreading as he nods in acceptance, and closes the apartment door behind himself.

* * *

**Kurt**

"You aren't planning to skip out are you Hummel? Didn't take you for the runaway bride type."

"I thought you'd quit?" He counters, ignoring her comment.

"I did." She laughs, blowing out the smoke as if Kurt was the one missing something.

"You sound just like Puck."

Lorraine chortles, her red lipstick leaving dark impressions on the tip of her long cigarette.

"Kid makes sense. So you going in?"

Kurt huffs, pushing his jacket sleeve up to check the time on his watch.

"He's late."

"Ah. You think _he's_ pulling the runaway groom act? That it?"

"No. I just - I don't know. It was his friend who set this up. They're already in there doing God knows what. They said something about a surprise which frankly scares me. And I already feel weird about doing this - you know - here."

"What at the church? Nah. Fuck 'em."

"Lorraine!"

"What? It's a venue Kurt. That's what it is. It's serves God's purpose on Sunday's, and today it's serving you. Just take it for what it is. Because today it's yours. Speaking of yours..." She trails off, a mischievous gleam in her eye as she nods her head at something just past his shoulder.

Kurt turns to glimpse whatever has that shit eating grin looming on her face. He heaves a sigh of relief, trying not to break into a smile at the sight.

"Happy marriage darling," and Lorraine flicks the cigarette into the street, her five inch heels clicking across the paved stairs of the church entrance, and then she disappears inside.

He marches up to Puck, trying to look stern yet not too cold. His arms are tucked across his chest, which just for a second makes him worry he's gonna split the sleeves of his tailored suit jacket if he holds the position too long.

"Hey Princess. You ready to officially be mine?" He waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

"You're late." Kurt retorts, his tone bordering frigid.

Puck scratches the back of his neck. His attempt at a Windsor knot was awful. It was literally hurting Kurt's eyes. He had several tiny blood soaked squares on his face, one decorating his chin and the other his left cheek; the tell tale sign of a hasty shave with a probably dulled razor.

"Yeah sorry. I woke up a little late. Then my stupid tire got punctured by a nail or whatever so I had to change it. I actually need a bathroom. My hands are still kinda greasy," Puck finishes while holding up his hands, palms facing upward to display the evidence of his plight.

"Here. I always try to keep some on me," and Kurt shoves a small bottle from his pocket into Puck's hand.

Puck looks confused. His eyes wide and shifty.

"Uh - dude, is this like - lube?"

"It's hand sanitizer Puckerman. Goodness, just - use it! And tilt your head up. Your neck tie looks like Helen Keller tied it."

"Score. Is she the chick that invented Frosted Flakes?"

"I'm sure in her spare time." Kurt utters facetiously. He worked swiftly, re-tying the knot with well practiced ease, then plucks off the mini-paper squares, finally stepping back to examine his work. "There. Better."

"Thanks. I am sorry by the way. I hope you weren't freakin' out that I wasn't gonna show or something."

He sounded so damn earnest, and more genuine than Kurt ever recalls him sounding. He can't help but feel less inclined to put on the bitchy Bridezilla act.

"No. I didn't freak out. Ironically, I had faith." Somewhere in the deepest pit of his stomach, but it was there.

"Well good. 'Cause I wouldn't do that to you. You know, bail out. And you - um, look, really nice. Snazzy or something."

Kurt looks over himself, taking in the midnight blue suit jacket, an underlying metallic sheen to the material that gave it a subtle but still tastefully noticeable pop, paired with a simple white dress shirt, and black skinny tie. The pocket square in his breast pocket was a decorative polka-dotted pattern of neutral black and white hues. His pants were a simple charcoal black, fitted to perfection, and his dress shoes an expensive homage to the refinement of foreign men's dress shoes, a matching black to coordinate with the tie.

Truthfully the simplicity was to ensure that he didn't freak Puck out. They were already pushing the boundaries to the brink as it were. He figured toning it down and not going, well, _too gay_, couldn't hurt. Or make Puck feel any more uncomfortable with seeing this through.

"Thank you. You clean up well. The jacket's nice."

Puck was adorning a patterned beige sporting jacket, with what Kurt recalled Puck referring to as Professor Patches, a dark reddish-brown material on the elbows. He had on a light blue dress shirt, the burgundy tie drawing your eye against the soft blue. His gray slacks were slightly loose, the pant legs covering up the top portion of a pair of rustic, brown, motorcycle boots.

"Thanks. I snagged most of it from a thrift store. I don't really have any dress shoes, and I couldn't really find any in time, so I just rolled with these. Sorry if they suck."

"No. They work. The Professor Patches help tie them in I think."

"Cool. I - um - I think we were supposed to wait to see each other. Isn't that like - tradition, and a good omen or whatever?"

Kurt sinks his hands in his pockets.

"We're getting married - strike that, _squeezed in_, between two other weddings. In a church that probably promotes archaic forms of death like stoning to gays. Everything about this is untraditional. So, lets go be untraditional together."

Puck grins, shaking his head to ward off the potential crack-up. He offers the crook of his elbow.

"Shall we lover?"

Kurt rolls his eyes, willing his face to spare him the blush for a change. He slips his arm through the offered appendage.

"So you know it's gonna be Hummel-Puckerman, right?" Kurt adds. Puck just throws his head back in laughter, a deep, crowing cackle ringing out.

"I heard this is what happens when you get married. And so the demands begin."

Once they climb the cement stoop and are mere feet from the entrance, Mickey explodes out of the front door, nearly barreling them over.

"Um - Kurt. Hi. I - uh, definitely am _not_ trying to be a negative Nelly. I want this day to be especially happy for you. Because you're so amazing, and so deserving, and beautiful, and talented, and basically better than every other person on this planet -"

"Were you going somewhere with this short stack?" Puck interrupts with a cocked brow.

"Right. Um - sorry. The thing is, I think the Minister is - um - well, not really suited to continue with the ceremony."

"What does that mean?" Kurt deadpans.

"It means he's drunk as a skunk blue eyes."

The trio turns to face the person who'd commented.

"Oh, why. Just - why?" Kurt throws his hands up in surrender, placating to the Spaghetti Monster residing somewhere in the sky. Probably on a pillow made of cloud meatballs. Where's he's laughing his head off at the inner turmoil eating Kurt up from the inside. What a merciful guy that all-powerful Spaghetti King. So pitying and non-vengeful.

"Lovely to see you too, Kurtie. I was a little saddened when I didn't get a direct invitation. But funny enough, a little birdy was kind enough to let me know the time and place for this - um - ceremony," he finishes with a haughty flourish.

"Dickface." Puck growls in greeting.

"Trailer Trash. Nice boots."

Puck makes a move as if he's going to swing but Kurt grabs his arm, and steps in front of him.

"Not today. It's our wedding day. Nothing but good energy. Even if a pile of human excrement shows up unexpectedly, and stinks up the place with his odorous, foul presence. Good vibes. Nothing but good vibes." Kurt states firmly, turning away from Puck to address the problem standing before him like a six foot, totem pole of cocky assuredness. "Alan, I don't know how you know about this, or why you bothered to come, but for now - you're a guest, and... you're welcome to come inside."

Yeah. He just said that. But it's the mantra running through his brain: _Be the bigger man - show him how happy you are without him_; those words that somehow justify his action.

Puck begins to argue but Kurt cuts him off. "But if you try any shit, like - anything _remotely_ ridiculous, I will personally kick you square in the balls. Right with the sharp tip of my shoe. Understood?"

"Crystal," Alan spouts leisurely, hands up in mock-surrender. His stupid, still very handsome face, split by that annoyingly crest-white bright smirk that could melt a person into a puddle like a wax figurine. Fuck. It was so unfair.

"Now Mickey, are you sure?" Kurt poses, trying and probably failing to hide his steadily rising anxiety level. Fashion show melt downs, bitchy clients, and impossible deadlines, he could handle. But this was just - this was something so beyond what he was equipped for - what with his freakin' ex-boyfriend leering at him, and the very fact that it's Puckerman of all people that he's doing this whole charade with.

"I actually saw the guy outside around the back when I was walking up. He looked pretty - er - _indulged_. Some Bear Cub in training with gross pork chops on his face was outside tending to him," Alan explains with obvious amusement.

"Kurt. I'll meet you inside. 'Cause if I literally don't walk away now, I'm gonna end up punching his dick face in until it resembles a vagina. I'll go check it out. Alan." Puck snarls in dismissal. But then he suddenly halts after taking a step, hovering by Kurt's side for a moment, then as if by last minute decision, places a chaste kiss to Kurt's cheek before stalking off.

Kurt knows that he probably looks surprised, especially since he automatically reaches up to touch the spot like some shocked eleven year old school girl whose life consists of One Direction fan-girling, and collecting Hello Kitty memorabilia.

"Well I guess that's my cue to go find a seat. Mickey, care to show me a good spot?"

"Not really."

Kurt shoots Mickey a withering glare.

"But - I - um - I will. Because - good vibes and all. Follow me."

The two head inside, and Kurt is left standing on the stoop alone, questioning his very existence.

"I'm marrying Noah Puckerman today. Yeah. I am. So please, just - please get me through this Spaghetti Monster in the sky. That's all I ask." He whispers aloud to the un-responsive world around him. He exhales deeply, rolls his shoulders back, and purposefully marches forward much like he was treading a runway. He takes his place by the door, and waits with bated breath.

* * *

**Puck**

Kurt's gonna be pissed. Like - royally.

"I thought you said he was legit?" Puck asks in a strained voice.

"Well how was I supposed to know he was an alcoholic?"

Puck felt his temper simmering to a boil, rising word by word.

"You said," He says with an intensely slow drawl - like he was having a conversation with a damn toddler that happened to be shaped like a full grown Rockabilly reject, "that you knew the guy."

"I said I know a guy who knows a guy. Two different things. He's my uncle's brother."

"WHICH MAKES HIM YOUR UNCLE TOO!" Puck shouts, trying to will his hands to not wrap around Cedric's sausagey throat and squeeze until his head popped off.

"Whatever man! My other _non_-drunk Uncle was the one who got us in so you guys could even have the ceremony here. And right now, it's too late. We're here now and we gotta make it work. You don't want to disappoint your - um - your man, do you?"

Puck remains silent, clenching his fists and thinking of happy shit.

"Didn't think so," Ced presses on hastily. "Now, I figure, if he drinks like I think he does, he's probably like a functioning alcoholic. I mean maybe, instead of trying to get someone else - which pretty much ain't gonna happen at this point - we work with it."

How the fuck he's not going Ape, he doesn't know. He's still thinking of eating Nachos, and beating Dickface with a bat. That's probably helping.

"You want to have a currently shit faced drunk, perform the ceremony? That's what you're saying to me right now? Those are the words coming out of your mouth?"

"Dude. Check it out. We'll just have him sit down in the front row until you're both standing in front of him, and then he can just cover the major points. You know - the necessities. Like the do you take this man part, and kiss the dude - I mean groom. I can even stand there behind him to make sure he doesn't fall out. It'll be fine. You'll see."

Puck stares at Cedric's face for what feels like decades, then breathes out an edgy sigh.

"If I didn't love you like I do, I would be getting picked up right now for murder. Cold blooded, and very painful murder."

"Got it. Murder. Death. Not good. So I'm gonna have Kurt's man-secretary signal for him to come in. You go get in place, and let's get the show on the road good buddy."

By the time Puck's in place at the end of the aisle, he's trying to avoid grinding his teeth into dust, eying the hiccupping slob of a priest, or whatever title the fucker was, slumped over in the closest pew. He shoots eye daggers over at Cedric, who simply gives him a nervous thumbs up, his electric guitar secured in place and the mic stand prepped in front of him.

The guys are posted near to where Puck is standing, tucked in the corner of church. Band equipment plugged in and ready to go.

Joey, a mousey looking black dude with thick hipster glasses, is twirling the drum stick between his fingers, waiting patiently behind his drum kit. Freakin' Wyatt, who's grinning like the fucking Joker, bouncing on the balls of his feet, already has his fingers spread across the electric, digitally enhanced keyboard. They'd agreed. Nothing other than something simple; an updated rock version of the 'Here Come's the Bride' jam, or something similar.

When Mickey steps inside and gives the group a nod, Cedric yells into the microphone. "Puck, this one's for you and your man-hubby!"

Puck groans, closing his eyes to shield himself from whatever God-awful shit was about to go down. Fuck. He knew that actually relying on them to just be fucking simple was too good to be true.

The synthetic horn sound blasts from the keyboard, and he immediately recognizes the tune.

Oh great Cesar's ghost titties...

Wyatt glides over the keys with ease as he starts the song off with an impressive rendition of the synth melody that made the song an American classic; ironically by a band called Europe.

The guitar riff comes in, accompanied by the drum bass. The build up was solid, forcing his brain into thinking of old times. Like he was psyching himself up and getting pumped before getting ready to level some rival high school football team on the grid iron.

Then Kurt has stepped in, his face flushing at the no doubt ridiculous entrance music, and then Cedric is singing, and he's trying his best to will Kurt down the aisle at a quicker pace.

_**We're leaving together**_  
_**But still it's farewell**_  
_**And maybe we'll come back**_  
_**To earth, who can tell?**_  
_**I guess there is no one to blame**_  
_**We're leaving ground**_  
_**Will things ever be the same again?**_

_**It's the final countdown**_  
_**The final countdown**_

Man, fuck Cedric. He knew this song was Puck's Kryptonite. As inappropriate and unrelatable as it was for the situation, it was still so fucking cool and majorly badass. Really, despite its complete cheese factor, it's still a classic.

But one look at Kurt makes him want to sink into the carpet.

Princess was doing that one step, pause, then take another step, and pause - wedding stroll that people usually did. Puck thinks he has a vague recollection of that walk somewhere in the back of his head. He shakes the memory away, and refocuses.

Kurt looked pretty much like he was trying to either avoid throwing up, or running up and beating the shit out of Wyatt with his own keyboard.

Safe to assume that amused, the kid definitely was not.

_**Ohh**_  
_**We're heading for Venus**__**  
**__**And still we stand tall**_  
_**'Cause maybe they've seen us  
**__**And welcome us all**_

Princess's mouth was thinner than a toothpick by the time he reached Puck. It was like - on some steel trap shit. Probably to keep himself from screaming some blood curdling howl of insults that blasted people's skin off.

_**With so many light years to go**_  
_**And things to be found  
**__**I'm sure that we'll all miss her so**_

_**It's the final countdown**_  
_**The final countdown**_

"Alright guys! GUYS! We get it. It's yeah - good. Thanks." Pucks shouts over the song, immediately stunning the gang into stumble of flat notes, and then silence.

"Ced, can you - um - you know, _assist_, please." Puck nods pointedly at the Drunkle, as Puck has irritably decided to coin the dude: the fucking Uncle, slash Boozer, slash - by some cosmic joke - Minister, who somehow managed to doze off into a snoring fit during that obnoxiously loud musical number.

"Oh. Right. Got it," Ced voices, slipping the guitar off his shoulder and handing it over to Wyatt. Cedric tries tapping Drunkle who just makes a gross swallowing sound in response, and continues snoring.

A couple more taps, and then a full on slap.

"Wha-what? What is it Margey? I'm fuckin' takin the trash out so quit bitchin'."

"Priceless." Comes the none-too-subtle exclamation from the middle section of the scarce audience, followed by tittering laughter. His hatred for Dickface is seriously growing like it was on steroids.

"Hey. We need you to get your ass up, and start talking us through the marriage vows. Now." Puck whispers as fiercely as he can manage without shouting.

"Oh. Right. Let me just - get my readin' glasses."

"Just skip everything. I'm sure you can remember the end parts. Right? Just do the ending part."

And Puck and Cedric pull Drunkle to his feet. Cedric guides him past Kurt and Puck, and keeps his hand over his shoulder to keep the bastard from passing out, and melting into a useless puddle of sad.

"Dearly beloved -"

"The end, man. Get. To. The end."

"Right. Man... and apparently... other man. Do you take each other, to be lawfully wedded - er - husbands? Through sickness and health, til death do y'all part. Yadda, yadda, yadda, you know the spiel already I'm sure. So do you?"

"Wait - what about the rings?" Kurt asks.

"Oh. Yeah. Those. Got 'em?"

Cedric tries to reach into his dress pants pocket, but then Drunkle leans along with him, dangerously close to falling, causing Ced to use both hands to steady him.

"It's in my pocket. Dude, you gotta dig it out."

"What?"

"Oh for the love of Adam Lambert!" Kurt grumbles in frustration, then quickly digs inside Ced's self proclaimed ring holding pocket, and pulls out the sterling silver ring that Puck had picked up at the mall two days before. He shoves it onto his ring finger, and then pulls out a small box from his own pocket, cracking it open and plucking out a larger ring.

It was a skull. With what looked like - yeah - it was; two colored rubies for eyes.

"Let me see your hand," Kurt commands. Puck doesn't hesitate. Not when Kurt was being - well, all controlling, and kind of scary. And something was telling him that he ought not to fuck with scary Kurt.

The ring fit pretty comfortably, and Puck was sort of awed by it, forgetting for a moment where he was and what it was for. Before he could blink, Kurt was holding his hands between them, and looking up at him with a determined expression.

"Can you wrap this up?" He instructs Drunkle, with his infamous chilly, Ice Queen tone. Drunkle also seemed sort of impressed through his dazed, stupor of drunkenness as he clears his throat, stumbling slightly at the gesture, then claps his hands together.

"Well now. So we're at the part where you say 'I do'. So do you?"

"Um - yeah, I do. Definitely." Puck stutters.

"I do." Kurt supplies curtly.

"So now y'all are s'pose to seal the deal with a kiss. I pronounce you - um, man, and other man. Kiss, or shake hands or whatever you guys do."

Kurt sighs, cups Puck's head in his hands, and then plants one on him.

He expects it to be chaste, quick, and nothing much to it. But for some reason, it's not some pussyfooted little peck.

It's not like, exchange of tongues either. But it's definitely somewhere closer to like - movie quality, softy, linger kiss. And Puck, by nature was sort of responding to it.

But then Kurt pulls away, and Puck knows how confused and discom - er - bobble headed or whatever, he likely looks right now. He flashes a grin from ear to ear, trying to make up for any weirdness that his awkward expression might have potentially signaled to the small audience composed of basically some of Kurt's co-workers, and Puck's music shop brethren.

He looks down at Princess holding his hand, and notices that they're actually making their way back down the aisle toward the front entrance.

"So I'm going to IHOP. _We_ are going to IHOP. And you're all welcome to join us. Or you can remain here to gossip and ponder about what you just bared witness to. Either way, I need carbs. And sugar. Thank you. And if you aren't able to join us, good day to you."

Kurt makes the announcement with as much dignity as he could shoulder. Puck just shrugs with a lop-sided smirk.

"So - You heard my man. Um - let's make moves people."

* * *

**Kurt**

The water felt like perfection as it properly cooled his heated skin. He cups another handful, carefully burying his face in the hand-made puddle.

He then straightens up, looking himself over in the mirror, and gently turns the knob to the restaurant sink, shutting the flow of water off. The IHOP restroom was pin-drop quality silent but for his steady breathing.

They did it. It was official. And he'd made it through somehow.

Sure the news of the drunk Minister, and Alan's unwelcome appearance was enough to send him packing. But he was a Hummel. He didn't run away. Nor did he collapse at the sound of the unflattering, cluster-fuck of song blasting his eardrums apart. Nope. He finds the beat, and strolls to it with his head held high.

The rest was just second after second of going through the motions, making sure each step was handled, much like he would do at his job. Even the kiss... He hadn't been thinking. Well, he guesses that he had. He'd been thinking of being methodical, and selling it, rubbing it in Alan's chiseled face... And being like every story-book woman he'd fantasized was supposed to do on their long awaited wedding day...

Oh.

So he had allowed himself to slip into his own self-proposed wedding fantasy. Even if it was just for a moment. He got to have at least one semi-real piece of what he wasn't really getting, since this whole thing was just a scam anyway.

Suddenly the door cracks open, and a certain head of wavy hair is hovering just above his shoulder; the green orbs piercing into his via the water stained mirror.

"Hello Kurtie."

"What do you want? It's already weird enough that you randomly showed up at my wedding -"

"Is that what that was? Hm. Well, it was lovely. Truly. I can't tell if I loved the part when the house band played the 80's hair metal tune with such vigorous intensity more. Or the part where the Minister nearly threw up on your shoes after slurring his way through the astoundingly impressive vows. It's a tough call."

"Alan. I don't need your shit. I warned you."

Alan sneers, and then roughly turns Kurt by the shoulders, pinning him against the sink with not an inch between them.

Kurt raises his hand to slap the wave out of his shiny locks, but is halted by Alan's quick reflexes, the grip crushing his wrist.

"W-what are you doing?!"

"I'm showing you, that you don't really take this wedding seriously."

"I -"

"Shh. Mm. God you smell divine. I miss that smell. I know you Kurt. I know that you want me to remind you." Alan dips his head lips ghosting his pulse point, breath tickling Kurt's skin. "To remind you who you're supposed to really be with."

Kurt's breathing is picking up pace as Alan trails wet kisses over his neck. He's losing his will to fight, and he hates himself for every physiological response the once familiar touch was spawning within him.

"No. G-get off."

"I plan to. But you first."

He's biting his lip, trying to stifle the moan, keep it from encouraging this insane exchange.

"Please. Alan. Stop."

"You know I can't do that baby," and Alan's hand is reaching between them, fingers descending toward the fucking humiliating bulge straining against his charcoal pants.

"Okay. Seriously, stop. I said STOP!" Kurt hollers, pushing Alan away forcefully. Alan looks momentarily stunned, but then his stupid sneer returns in full force as he straightens the knot in his tie as care-free, and indifferent as ever.

"We can't. Okay? I'm married now. You missed your chance with me when you decided to treat me like a second class citizen in our relationship. And I don't even mean the fact that you left me to go get your cock sucked off by some foreign model who could barely speak English. We were a mess before that. But still, that could've been you today. We could've walked out to whatever waltzy, classical bullshit your stuck up parents, and boarding school cronies would've appreciated. We could have. But that's gone now. We're... It's gone now."

Alan's green eyes meet the tiled floor for a moment, and he shoves his hands in his pockets. Eventually he looks up at Kurt, watching him, his mouth twisted in a thin line.

"Noah might not be loaded, or have some trust fund to wipe his ass with. He might not be that refined or ambitious even. But... As of today, he's my husband. And I won't disrespect him like that. Not even with person I thought was supposed to be where he was standing today."

Just as Alan opens his mouth to retort, the door bursts open.

"Hey." Kurt greets with a grateful smile.

"Yo. You okay? You were gone for a while. Started to think you fell in or something." Puck relates, both easy-going and enthusiastic at the same time. That is until his dark eyes catch sight of who else was in the restroom, and he stiffens, keeping the honey hue boring into green.

"There a problem here?"

It's silent, and then Alan speaks; the crooked grin rising from the ashes.

"Nope. Just giving Kurtie here my congratulations. Same to you _Pluck_. I'm sure we'll see each other again." He comments sharply; a warning, not a casual promise, and it causes Kurt to shiver uncomfortably. He then brushes past Puck, and leaves the two of them in ringing silence, the echo of the closed door and Alan's foot steps lingering behind.

Kurt leans his back into the sink. Puck slowly wanders toward him, then mirrors his position. Kurt is reminded of the time they'd been in his office, the moment right after they'd made their decision to do this crazy ass scheme.

"So -"

"He kissed me. On my neck." Kurt blurts, avoiding Puck's eye.

Puck's face morphs into a deep scowl.

"I knew that son of bitch was up to something. I'm gonna go break his face real quick!"

"No! You can't!" Kurt yells, scrambling to hold Puck in place.

"Why?!"

"Because I let him!" Kurt cries, barely managing to meet Puck's eyes for some reason. "I let him," he repeats more quietly.

Puck huffs, and runs his hand over his slickened mohawk. Kurt thinks it seems safe to release him, so he does.

"I - there's no excuse. I should've pushed him out of the way and walked out. But I guess - I let myself get caught up in the memory. I stopped him before it went too far, and I - I'm sorry, Puck."

Puck's expression is blank, which honestly causes Kurt a significant sense of unease. But then, before Kurt can begin to worry any further, he's shrugging his broad shoulders.

"Eh. Is what it is I guess. You got worked up. Shit happens. Besides we - we both know that, well... Um - we're not really, you know,_ together_-together. I mean, it's kind of naïve to think that we're not gonna date other people, or get horny and fuck around. The marriage license is just a piece of paper. You have every right to keep living your life, Princess."

For some reason, the aloofness of the statement stings a bit; a place somewhere deep inside of him that is so easily enthralled by grand romantic gestures and ballroom dancing in a castle courtyard. But he shakes his head, chastising himself for the silly mind-slip, and returns Puck's luke-warm smile.

"Yeah. You're right. Dating ground rules. We definitely need to do that. You should be able to date who you want. This is just an arrangement, so - yeah. Of course."

"Exactly. So you can get your gay on with whoever. Just - anybody but him. Please. Not the gigantic douche with serious dick chin."

"He doesn't have a dick chin. I mean - what _is_ that even?"

"You can't say that his long, sloped chin with the stupid little dimple right smack dab in the middle, does not remind you of a dick."

"No. It's kind of cute. I used to always think so."

"Because you're gay, Hummel. And you like dicks. 'Course you thought it was cute."

And before either knows what's happening, they're busting up, laughing so hard that Kurt nearly doubles over and falls onto the disgusting tiled floor. They laugh for minutes at least, and Kurt knows that after everything was said and done... this was going to be okay. That they'd figure it out, and that he and Puck could actually manage becoming genuine friends along the way.

When they hiccup themselves back into normalcy, Puck holds the door open for him.

"C'mon. Wyatt keeps trying to hit on Midget boss. It's pretty hilarious. I wants to miss none of it."

Kurt rolls his eyes, but can't restrain the chuckle that escapes. The Santana-esque comment tickles his nostalgia bone if there's such a thing.

"Are you sure letting him know about you getting married to me was a good idea? That one seriously worries me. Like in a mental health sort of context."

"Trust me. It's better for him to be on the 'in'. Sure I'll probably keep getting disturbing sext messages at all hours, and vintage Play Girl photos stuffed in my locker at work with Wyatt shaped lipstick stains. But deep down, he's a good guy. He has my back in the end."

Kurt blinks.

"I just - I really, really get what Gladys and Cedric were talking about now."

Puck just chortles in response and allows Kurt to pass him by, letting the door shut closed behind them. As strange as it is, Kurt is beyond thankful that they decided to keep a tight knit, sort of objective group of people to bare witness to their debacle of a ceremony. There was only a very brief - and he means very brief, miniscule, tiny speck of a moment where he found himself missing his family and close friends not being there. His dad not being able to walk him down the aisle...

And then Puck's booming - and somehow at times - kind of randomly charming voice is sounding off at the table, rattling on about Gladys having to miss the event because of doing extra 'Beaver' clean up, laughing loudly at his own attempt at a Lesbian crack.

Then he's secretly thanking his lucky stars that they weren't. His dad still had his gun cabinet. It was safer to not rock the boat with the knowledge of this whole thing. Yeah. Definitely not.

They somehow needed to get through this ordeal without them knowing about it; as if it was some brief moment in time that easily came, went, and was sealed away without anybody being the wiser. Yep. That's exactly how it should be.

* * *

**A/N: If you haven't heard the song _Final Countdown_ by _Europe_, I definitely suggest you give it a listen. Pure 80's gold. I actually laughed out loud to myself imagining it playing during that scene. This chap was fun and I hope I was able to do it some justice. As always, let me what you guys thought. And thanks for your encouragement and awesome support! **


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